With Empathy
by AndyForAwesome
Summary: Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection and feelings with John. M/M Rated M for later chapters for sexual content
1. At The Flat

**Series:** Sherlock BBC

**Rating:** PG (Though **M** for explicit smut in later chapters and some language I think...)

**Characters:** Sherlock/John  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 5193 (for this chapter only - full story is probably 100,000 +)  
><strong>Summary Plot:<strong> After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.  
><strong>Comments:<strong> Hey guys. This is a combined fic between (LJ) **eyesofsociopath** as Sherlock, and (LJ) **idkhowtodothis** as John. I'm not sure if this will be any good as the format might be confusing. It lacks the transition since I'm too lazy to edit haha.

But either way, there is a very long plot to this and we spent several months on it already. So if you would spare the time, please enjoy : )

*P.S: Please excuse the mistakes!

**Chapter 1 - At the Flat**

It had been seven days since the pool blew up, six days since he was discharged from the hospital, and five days since he started to formulate words in his mind and the opportune moment to present them to the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

However, for anyone who ever knew the man, they learned quickly that there was no 'opportune moment'. It was either say it or don't at all times and for a passive man like John Watson, it was easy for many of his thoughts to get pushed aside just because he wanted to be polite and respectful... which was quite the contrary to what his flatmate was- Sherlock Holmes: the man who took pride in pointing out anything wrong in a person and revealing more about him than he knew, himself.

The cuts and bruises had healed up for the most part. John was smart enough to tug the both of them into the nearest door frame as the building came crashing down around them. It was a miracle that neither of them broke anything- so a few cuts and swollen joints were hardly anything to complain about. However, ever since, his neck hadn't quite felt just right. John figured he just needed to go to a masseuse or a chiropractor and everything would sort itself out. However, finding the time to do so was another story. Whatever free time he had that Sherlock didn't eat up, he spent it with Sara... who surprisingly stayed with him after the first date from hell.

However, John had a couple things on his mind that were a bit more important to him than a stiff neck. Sherlock was related to each one of those things. Granted, Sherlock was intertwined with a lot of things in his life nowadays. He didn't mind it, though- honest. What did bother him was how disposable he seemed to be in Sherlock's life.

On the seventh evening after their little incident in the pool, John came home after a particularly trying day at work, hands full with groceries that Sherlock neglected to buy after finishing off the last of their milk, peas, and shortbread cookies. He set the groceries down on the table and put away anything that would expire if left out and then made his way back into the living room and flopped down on the chair. He rubbed at his eyes to compose himself. Right. Now or never. He looked over to Sherlock, features as passive as ever. "Do you have a minute?"

Victory had never tasted so sweet, even if the said taste was of hot billowing ash and freshly spilt blood. Sherlock had won this round. Perhaps not in the way he wished, but regardless, it was clearly evident that his stunt had even surprised the psychopath.

How he could've let Moriarty get so close to outsmarting him, and now knowing that the criminal had been set loose once again, no doubt twisted and bent on revenge for the shame of his downfall. Unethical were his thoughts. The very idea that he had a worthy challenger, it excited him. His name echoed in his head, _Moriarty. Moriarty. _

_Moriarty._

He knew he was masochist, he knew he was an 'idiot', as John would helpfully put it. But in all seriousness, he did indeed thrive on life-threatening situations. Thrill-seeking tendencies weren't news to him. It was barely five years ago had he been the subject of a misfortunate incident of an overdose.

Ah, yes. Five years ago. That was when it all started. Consulting Detective; a fancy name, it suited him. He liked it. Who wouldn't? Mycroft had been the first suspect to inspire this ridiculous new idea, though Sherlock wouldn't admit it now, if anything, he'd preferred it better if he had no brother at all. Not when it was he, Mycroft, who walked into him as he collapsed and taking the needle from his trembling hands. Not when it was he, Mycroft, who carried his limp body to hospital bridal style for all of London to see. Not when it was he, Mycroft, who told his mother about what had happened. He didn't have to do it. She didn't need to know. _It wasn't me who upset her._

Sherlock knew he was lacking something. He stopped in his tracks; his eyes had been glazed over by intensive thought for the past few hours and now only to find his attention return and focusing on the blank wall of his living room in 221b Baker Street. He hadn't realized it straight away, but he adapted to a new habit of pacing. Was it because of an irreversible effect of an adrenaline rush? So close to an explosion- so close to death. It would've traumatized anyone, even thick skinned Sherlock Holmes. Not that he quite liked the idea of him having some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder and that his way of relieving it was to walk.

He heard a clatter downstairs as the front door closed. Distant noises of rustling informed him of shopping. A lot of shopping. The way they rustled as they scraped along both walls; It had to be at least five bags. And the heavy footsteps could only tell him that it belonged to a man. Nonetheless, as Sherlock looked up expectantly, a rather disgruntled looking John stepped through and heaving the groceries onto the table.

Sherlock hadn't said much, he merely glanced over the bags and could pick out several items already from the shape. Oh, so he did get the coffee this time, that's great.

"Yes." The detective replied curtly, he had managed to grab a book by the time John came back in so it wouldn't seem like he was aimlessly maundering the room for hours. For the last he checked, he was sure that wasn't considered a healthy sign. "I have the whole night, in fact. The lack of cases is starting to bore me."

Lack of cases, of course. That seemed to be the only shining star in the life of Sherlock Holmes. He didn't need the cinema or the football matches. Just give him a dead body and a mystery and he'd be as giddy as a kid in a candy shop. John already knew that of Sherlock- he never really was alive unless he was on some sort of emotional high... and even though Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything of it, he had a sneaking suspicion that he did a lot more than just smoking whenever he got too bored. But even so, that sort of thing didn't bother John.

However, he couldn't help but feel a bit betrayed at the way Sherlock was dealing with this post-Moriarty mess. First of all, Sherlock wasn't as well-equipped to deal with physical stress as John was. John was already tested and tried in war and he was well beyond his psychosomatic limp. Second of all, John was a doctor... and even though he was no psychiatrist, he could have at least helped out Sherlock if he needed somebody to talk to. He didn't just study anatomy during his training. However, John knew that Sherlock was an expert at fact, but a child with emotion. It was probably for that reason that he was so lenient with situations like these.

"I was thinking back to Moriarty," he said slowly, testing the waters- because right now, the name 'Moriarty' was probably as welcome as saying 'Voldemort' in the Longbottom household. That, and he was still trying to put his thoughts into words... to create an airtight sentence that even Sherlock had to pause before he went about picking things apart as usual.

"Before Moriarty. You said you'd get the groceries," now he was just rambling. But it was all going somewhere, honest. "But you just used that as a diversion to go to the pool." He could already feel the burn of emotion in the pit of his stomach, but he fought to keep that down... because Sherlock didn't understand emotion so that wouldn't go anywhere.

"Because you went to the pool, you put me in danger and I wasn't prepared to be put in the situation I was in." Right. It was almost like talking to a child- because he knew that Sherlock didn't mean any harm by it, but it was still wrong, nonetheless. "You should have told me what you were doing, Sherlock. I could have at least armed myself or went with you. But instead you were focused on your mind games. You threw me to the wolves there. And I don't mind being in danger, but I need you to let me know what's going on so we can avoid another situation like that."

The mention of the name had struck Sherlock like a light slap. At once, it seemed like the drawling exterior of boredom had vanished, instead replaced with complete assertiveness. Like a switch, the mental clarity of his mind had sparked on, picking up anything, anything that could be a clue to his new obsession. He watched him, the weight in his cool calculating eyes was enough to pin someone down and paralyze their tracks. Countless of times he favoured the look, as it was likely the lasting image his victims would see as he proceeds to strip them down to bare bone, revealing pitiful lies, evidence and habits they had never wished to admit.  
>And now, he was doing it to John. Oh ho, he was doing it all right.<p>

It was as if John was teasingly patting a landmine to see how hard he could tap without it exploding. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slowly, the book in his hands closed as he sat down on the chair opposite. There, he leaned forwards, hands clasped together and pressing them to his lips. Watching.

So it wasn't about Moriarty himself. More so, it was John's personal feelings. How strange, but he'll listen.

"It was your own fault. You were the one who let your guard down first. You are an easy target." Ha, he was blaming him for his stupidity. It was true. John was just too naïve sometimes. Be it that he already had been captured once before- dragged all the way across London with his girlfriend to be killed. One would think the person would learn a little more discretion, perhaps? "I obviously didn't expect you to be there. I didn't deliberately put you in danger. And I didn't want you there for a reason."

There it goes. That look. John was all too used to it. Sherlock was always able to pick out what he had a dream about the night before or whether Sara had snogged him or just gave him a single kiss good-night. It was like the man prided himself in pointing out actions that everyone else did, but he was too 'perfect' to do. Sherlock was like an alien sometimes.

John was patient, but he wasn't going to back down. It was incredibly frustrating to live and deal with Sherlock sometimes, but there was a price to everything. In exchange for no more nightmares and an action-filled life, he had to pay by dealing with an arrogant man who was too smart for his own good. However, he didn't like the way that Sherlock was trying to turn the tables and blame him for getting a bomb strapped to his chest.

"It's a bit hypocritical of you to make me tag along whenever you need help on a case despite the dangers, but whenever you don't need me, suddenly everything's over my head," he said calmly, eyes trained on his flatmate. He certainly didn't know how to make men freeze and second guess themselves like Sherlock did, but he was able to hold his ground.

"You didn't deliberately put me in danger, but I was brought there anyway. I wouldn't have strayed from the main roads while walking to Sara if I knew you were toying with Moriarty." John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I want to help you, Sherlock. And I'm not a child. So I think it's more than reasonable for me to ask you to let me know when you're about to pull a stunt."

Sherlock merely tilted his head as John patiently protested. Though only a quick glance to his hands which were- obviously- tightened into a fist and flexing out had told him enough that John was honestly agitated. He straightened a bit in his seat, taking in a deep steady breath as he continued to focus his eyes into the other. He had a feeling this might just take a while. Or not. Knowing how easily he can win over arguments, John will be backing off soon.

"I honestly thought you were smarter than that. I do need you on the minor cases. Medical assistant. Someone I can think aloud to. Those cases were nothing compared to what happened at the pool." And all the real danger John had been in before was with the Chinese assassins, which, if he recalled, wasn't his intention. And okay, fine, they had chased the Golem together. But that was because it was fun. A headlong meeting with a deranged psychopath who blew people up for leisure was not something even Sherlock took lightly.

And this. Was unbelievable. "Oh goodness, John, where were you the whole time those five victims had been targeted with the bombs? That was Jim playing with **me**. You already knew, but you don't think. Do you see?" He let out a huff, feeling his own chest jitter as it had earlier that made him pace, and now he felt the urge to get up and do it again. "And if I let you know about anything I'm doing, you'll always insist on coming. I don't tell you because I don't want you coming." It was simple. So simple. Why make such a fuss out of it?

This wasn't getting anywhere. John ran his fingers through his hair once, trying to think of a way to portray all this successfully to Sherlock without losing his temper. He should get an award for putting up with the man. John made a face and gave Sherlock a stern glare, but then he recomposed himself and continued with his side of the argument.

"I was helping you with those five victims, Sherlock. You wouldn't have gotten to the third victim so quickly if I wasn't the one doing your legwork and noticed the bloody cat," he said tersely, "and if I hadn't been doing your work for your brother- because you were too self-absorbed to do so until it proved useful to you- you wouldn't have had those missile plans that lured out Moriarty." He pointed a finger at himself. "I'm useful, Sherlock. I'm not some pet you can drag along with you when you want a bit of company."

He didn't like that feeling. Being called a loyal pet. When Mycroft first said it, he brushed it off. But when he was ready to lay down his life for Sherlock and his captor had mentioned it as well, John was starting to believe that there was a sort of problem. John did look a bit hurt that Sherlock specifically didn't want him coming. But now he'd have to take an approach that even Sherlock had to try and understand.

"Fine. You don't want me coming," he said, looking away for a moment. "But if you leave me on my own, you put both of us at more risk. Because I put my life on the line, people will assume I'm friends with you. Because you didn't run when I told you to, people will assume that you're friends with me." He gave Sherlock a stern look. "So if you don't let me know what's going on, I can easily make a mistake that could have been avoided and end up being captured and used as bait for you."

Admittedly, Sherlock hadn't met anyone who dared talk back at him so much, in some sense this was why John stood out so much from the crowd. It surprised him sometimes how stubborn John can be when he wanted something, and how he'd be willing to throw his life away and kill another to save him. The bravery of a soldier- something Sherlock hadn't come across so much these days. He had respected that on so many levels, to the point where he truly considered this man to have become the closest he's ever known, even his own family.  
>He had a point. He was useful. Perhaps too useful. Even he said it himself that he'd be lost without him. If it hadn't been for John, Sherlock might've been dead long ago.<p>

That was why he couldn't afford lose him.

He knew it was a selfish thing to do, yet what in his life had he done wasn't selfish? He was simply protecting him in his own way knowing that Moriarty would somehow take advantage of his connection, and it angered him to know that the psychopath had already noticed his relationship to the doctor. Had it been that obvious? Sherlock grimaced, his prying eyes finally tearing away as he stood from his chair.

He remained relatively calm despite being clearly irritated at this point. If only there was one clear solution… anything he could do. His paces brought him round the room again for the third time, mulling over possible ways to deal with such situation- it was simply like a case. All he had to do was think. _Think!_

And it was then something struck. He slowed his paces to a halt, his clasped hands pressed against his lips as he reconsidered it. It was only because of their connection that made it as difficult as it was now.

"How about it if we break ties?" Sherlock spoke softly, as if he had been wary on coming to that conclusion, yet every syllable was clear and precise and even a shadow of a threat hanging in his tone.

Somehow, John had been expecting that conclusion. He watched Sherlock as he paced about, muttering to himself and spouting nonsense. In a way, he never seemed to outgrow the infantile stage of private speech. But if that was the way Sherlock thought things through, then so be it. He had learned to take the man's antics with a pinch of salt.

And as much as he didn't like to hear that conclusion, it was surprisingly a step in the right direction. Up until now, all of Sherlock's accusations were critical to John and didn't involve himself. John could see where this was coming from- he didn't want to grow too dependent on John or form a friendship. For once, Sherlock wasn't being selfish in the sense that he was choosing to let John go entirely rather than keeping him on a shelf and using him when it was a convenience. Unfortunately, John wouldn't have any of that. He wasn't about to let go of the best thing in his life just because Sherlock was too much of a child to make a friend. His nightmares had disappeared, his limp was gone, and John never had more fun in his life.

For a moment, John was worried that he was being the selfish one.

But then John reminded himself of his real reason for staying- Sherlock was in deep with Moriarty now and one day, he may end up being in over his head. And John didn't want him to have to deal with that on his own.

"No," he said. His tone was gentle but had a firmness that showed he wasn't backing down from this one. He knew it was a slippery slope when it came to openly disobeying Sherlock. Usually, he didn't mind going along with what the other wanted, but this was not going to fly with John. However, he knew better than to be a complete, stubborn prat. "God forbid, you'll have to start buying your own groceries," he said, somehow managing a good-natured smile. "You're stuck with me, Sherlock. Now, why don't you put that brain of yours to work and come up with another solution?"

At the moment John had rejected his suggestion, Sherlock's usually calloused eyes flicked up to meet his. Though this time, it hadn't been all of a cool glare, rather, there had been relief that John hadn't taken the offer. Most people would've left long before now; it was a miracle that they even stayed for a good two weeks before zipping their luggage and slamming the front door for the last time. But this man, even after two months being with Sherlock, knowing his habits and even putting up with them- hadn't even shown an inkling of desire to relocate. Even as the opportunity was presented to him freely, he still insisted on staying. And Sherlock wanted to throw this away?

He would never admit to it. Never. But it was clear by now how much he needed him. For heaven's sake, John had reduced him to a gibbering idiot after he'd thrown himself out to sacrifice himself at the pool. But it was because of that that they had a problem. The reason Sherlock's life had been so easy was because he had no one to look out for. He was cold blooded detective, untouchable, and yet…

Sherlock couldn't help but to feel the warmth in his chest as the smallest hint of a smile crossed on his lips. Oh yes, John was after all such a brilliant grocery shopper, and how could he deny the daily coffee he'd gladly brew for him?

And now, for once, Sherlock Holmes had been lost for an answer. How such a simple thing as emotions could bring down the juggernaut of brainpower. It was a dilemma, no straight solution, no victim, no murderer. He shook his head slowly, the crease in his brows were an evident sign that he was distressed.

"I don't know." The detective finally said, feeling shame in his words and almost wincing to how he sounded. "Stay. I suppose…"

John had been prepared for the worst. He knew that Sherlock would do damn near anything to get what he wanted. Hell, the idiot threw his life down on the line just to prove how brilliant he was. John was half-expecting for Sherlock to get in a huff about his stubbornness and tell him that he was cramping his thinking space or something ridiculous like that. It almost shocked him to see what he thought was something positive in his eyes and- was that almost a smile? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he wasn't in trouble with the man.

He relaxed visibly at the word 'stay'. Funny how he was happy to obey basic commands when his biggest problem was being accused of acting like a pet for Sherlock. However, the crease in his brow and shame in his tone immediately worried John. Was Sherlock upset having him around? John wasn't quite sure if he had done something wrong there, but he was going to let it drop. He'd take one little victory at a time and if it was a big enough problem, he was sure that Sherlock would come back at him in a half hour, pointing out all the flaws in the situation.

But for now, John quietly rose out of his chair to go back into the kitchen and start brewing the coffee he had bought. He figured Sherlock needed a good cuppa. After a few minutes, he returned with a mug for Sherlock (black with two sugars) and one for himself (milk and sugar). He passed Sherlock's mug over before he took his seat in the usual chair and looked up at his flatmate. Maybe a change in topic was what they needed. "So the lack of bullet holes in the walls tells me that you've had some sort of thing occupying you today."

It was difficult discerning how he was feeling right now. And even as he continued to press himself on finding the answer, he found himself going around a frustrating loop. This was a first, deducing his own emotions. Normally it wouldn't concern him, it wouldn't even be a problem. He knew love was a prime motivator to most people, but only that much he understood. But for as much as he could tell for himself, any relationship with anyone had been a major hindrance.

Part of his shame had unleashed as agitation, somehow now he wanted John gone, accusing him for bringing him to a mindless idiot. And at the same time he wanted him here. He didn't sit back down as John returned with the cup, taking it mutely and thumbing the handle agitatedly.

The change of topic was sudden, but taken gratefully. Sherlock glanced up as he sipped his coffee, mildly passing a glance at the wall that had been well intact. "So, you're starting to pick up some deducing skills yourself." He placed the cup down, pocketing his hands as he thought his answer over.

He didn't really wish to bring up Moriarty with John again, for some reason, he felt that the issue with the criminal mastermind had been his own personal problem. But then, John had the rights to know, after being a victim himself. And after that long talk of having to tell him everything- this was the first step.

"Moriarty is unlikely to show himself for the next few weeks. He's sustained injuries, no doubt. But he'll want to get his revenge after that." And he already had suspicions to what his motives will be.

He'd have to start getting used to Sherlock standing up and pacing. He seemed to be doing that a bit more often lately, so John would have to start getting used to that; it was a lot easier dealing with a contemplating Sherlock when the man was laying down but pacing could get a bit annoying after a while. However, it was the lesser of two evils. He'd rather deal with a pacing Sherlock than an angry Sherlock. It was better than that bloody violin, too. It wasn't like Sherlock was bad at playing or that he didn't like the violin- it was just the sort of 'thinking music' Sherlock played. Couldn't he learn a nice sonatina? Or maybe Praeludium and Allegro. That was a nice piece.

John couldn't help but grin a bit when Sherlock mentioned his deduction skills. He knew he was miles behind his flatmate in that area, but the compliment was appreciated. It was loads better than being called stupid, as usual, and John learned that compliments from Sherlock were few and far between. After all, the best Sherlock was able to say after John risked his life for him was something along the lines of 'that- that thing you did before? that was nice'. It wasn't like he was expecting some sort of bouquet.

However, what came out of Sherlock's mouth next was everything he could ask for. Sherlock was keeping him in the loop. John felt a bit giddy at that, but he hid it with his calm demeanor and sipped at his coffee. "Well, at least you're getting more than twelve hours to outsmart him," he said, trying to be optimistic. He liked action and risks, but he wouldn't want a conflict with Moriarty too often.

"You ought to try and find who he's connected with- he has to be pretty high up to think that the missile plans are child's play. But in all honesty, you should rest. You've been on your feet a lot more than usual."

Oh, that was easier said than done. Sherlock knew full well of how intricate these organizations were. He wouldn't be able to manage just on his own; after all he was just one man against a possible multinational cooperation. Even he wasn't that naïve. This was Jim's playhouse, he probably had enough power to overrule the British Government if he so wanted.

It was a risk enough letting John in on this, could he be aware of the possible dangers? He had a good insight of the world Sherlock lived in, though being sceptical at first to how overly dramatized it can be. But this was reality. Forget the small games in the back streets, fighting mobs, chasing taxi cabs around London and poking about with a TV actress. This was surely no doubt going to become a mass scale war. Be it involving missiles that Moriarty handled so casually, and even the plans worried Mycroft, a person with great status within the ruling world.

But yes, John was right; Sherlock had been up for three days straight. He needed rest, no matter how much he resisted the temptation to press on with his speculations. He downed the last of his coffee and set it down on the table, a moment's pause as he looked over to John and watched him closely.

He couldn't stop the soldier now, even if he wanted to. John was part of his life, his 'career'. Sherlock knew it wouldn't be the same if John should go back to civilian life now, having been in war for the majority of his years. And in that sense, he supplied what the doctor was missing, a life of danger and threat.

"Well." Sherlock finally said as he straightened himself up resolutely, his hands pocketed and appearing unsure of what he was doing. He could not remember the last time he had bid anyone a proper close off to a conversation, "Good night then. John."

Yes, it was certainly easier said than done. John knew the danger he was getting himself in and by god, he was more than willing to throw himself down for the cause. As normal as he looked and as hard as he tried to have normal things in his life, he was far from it. He was more alive than ever during his service in the military and it took him until meeting Sherlock to realize that all those nightmares and syndromes of his were just his body and mind begging him to return to that life. Sherlock's statement proved everything. 'I said danger, and here you are'

The fact that he had Sherlock alongside him made it even easier to follow this style of life.

"Good night, Sherlock," he responded. He could see that his flatmate was akward with actual conversation, so John took his leave. Rather than going to bed, though, John began to straighten up the flat as much as possible without disturbing the numerous experiments Sherlock liked to conduct during his free time. At least the head was out of the fridge.

He put away the rest of the groceries and, after giving the kitchen a once-over, he finally went upstairs and went to sleep.

**Reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	2. Scotland Yard  Two Weeks Later

**Chapter Rating:** PG-13 (Drug use)

**Summary Plot:** After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.  
><strong>Comments:<strong> Hey guys. This is a combined fic between (LJ) **eyesofsociopath** as Sherlock, and (LJ) **idkhowtodothis** as John. I'm not sure if this will be any good as the format might be confusing. It lacks the transition since I'm too lazy to edit haha.

But either way, there is a very long plot to this and we spent several months on it already. So if you would spare the time, please enjoy : )

*P.S: Please excuse the mistakes!

**Chapter 2 - Scotland Yard/Two weeks later**

"What do you mean... _'You can't allow me'?_"

Scotland Yard had been relatively quiet that morning, but the working environment had been immediately disrupted as the consulting detective stormed his way in with complete disregard to all in his path. The receptionist had already informed Lestrade that a very angry Sherlock was on his way up so he had been well prepared for the explosion as the man burst through the door. Well, what did he expect after sending him a text like that?

"I mean what I said, Sherlock. As much as I appreciate your help- not that you were really helping us for our benefit- I can't keep allowing you in on these crime scenes. I mean, if my boss finds out about it he'll kill me, you know?" The Detective Inspector had looked genuinely bothered to have lost his favourite detective, despite Sherlock's reckless behaviour and selfishness at times, he still managed to get the job done ten times faster than any of the others. "Just following the old protocol, wasn't my idea. Sorry."

Sherlock was seething, resembling much like a hungry vulture at the way he perched at the Detective Inspector's desk. After having drilled a rather threatening glare at Lestrade who showed no signs of backing down, he tore away from the table so he could have room to vent his anger, hands dragging through his hair roughly. "This is _**ridiculous**_." He hissed out that every syllable was wavering in fury, feeling more winded than he had in a long time. There had been several cases that he really wanted to get into, and it was a rare time when there had been even one that interested him. And now, when there were two exceptional cases lined up involving a serial murder and a disappearance mystery, he wasn't even allowed to even touch the file report!

Oh Anderson will love to see him now. Sherlock can just imagine that slimy leech as he crawls past and sneering his taunts- then he would just have to get a good grab at his bloody neck so he could-

"However, there's a way you can work for us again." Lestrade's statement wrenched all thought out of Sherlock's mind at that minute. He spun round, hopeful, sceptical. Was it a trick? "Nationwide Investigations Group. Opening up pretty darn good classes to newcomers that will earn you a starting licence."

Sherlock huffed, his steady exhale of breath could mean relief- or disappointment. School wasn't something he was ever into, in fact he had failed many of his subjects due to the fact that he didn't find any of the information relevant or helpful. In which case it was a wonder he managed to get into University, of course, with a little help from Mycroft, to pursue his detective career. But even so, the severity of boredom he had to live through while sitting through the pointless lectures- throwing out the answer to what was supposed to take two months to solve within ten minutes. This was pointless. _Pointless_.

"So, will you take it?"

"Does it look like I have much choice?" Honestly, he can be so angry at the human society, had he been born in another life he would have done a great job as a mass murderer, "How long is it?"

"Two months."

Ah, another hiss. Two months, two bloody long months.

John was used to Sherlock banging about and having no care what hour it was when he was causing such a ruckus. It may have partially been John's fault since he was a light sleeper and woke at the slightest sound or movement. Afghanistan can do that to a man. However, even if he had been passed out, nobody could have slept through the tantrum Sherlock was throwing as he stormed about the flat to get ready for a visit to Scotland Yard early in the morning.

A slightly disgruntled and very sleepy John crawled out of bed to brush his teeth and get dressed to accompany Sherlock. After the conversation they had the previous night, he was worried that he had done something wrong and now Sherlock as getting upset over it. But after realizing that it was a text from Lestrade, a bit of weight lifted off his shoulders. Of course, he still worried for Sherlock's sake, so he tagged along the silent taxi ride (he was walking on eggshells right now and didn't want to set Sherlock off). Once Sherlock had stormed past the receptionist and into the DI's office, John finally realized what was going on.

Oh. _Oh_, that was not fair. Not in the slightest. John found himself with a creased brow and a set frown on his face. While Sherlock let everyone know if he was angry, John usually kept it to himself. However, he had to speak out for Sherlock's behalf- not just because it was the right thing to do by him, but he wanted to do something in return for Sherlock trusting him.

"Detective inspector," he addressed calmly, but with the military-firm tone. "You and I both know what an asset Sherlock is and I'm positive that there's some sort of equivalency exam he can take for his license rather than wasting two months of all of our time. You need him."

Sherlock took notice as John spoke, almost forgetting he was there amidst his rage episode, though his support was taken with gratitude. This was why the world needed more people like him.

However, it seemed that Lestrade had already seen this coming, he was shaking his head before John could finish his sentence. "Look, don't think that I'm all chuffed with the idea of losing Sherlock either. Yeah, I know he's pretty good. Too darn good, in fact. But it's not in my position to say that. And I can't just issue out an a equivalency exam! You gotta talk to someone with more status, ya know?"

This wasn't getting anywhere, Sherlock could tell. He couldn't bear to stand there any longer, not risking the wait until he flips a table or something. With a very sharp irritable 'Come on, John,' he stormed out as noisily as he came in, the fire in his aura could be felt desks away as people pushed aside as he past.

So it was back to square one, five years ago before he was 'employed' by Lestrade. Back when he had done nothing with his life. At least, he thought, that he wasn't all alone now. After all, John had made a pretty good replacement of his last skull. He even talked back, which was great. Now these coming days would be less of a dread, he hoped.

* * *

><p>The next two weeks were particularly testing for the both of them. Testing for Sherlock, because the poor man had to deal with <em>normal <em>people, heaven forbid... and it was testing for John because he had to deal with Sherlock being such a moody mare all the time. Granted, he had prepared for the worst. Sherlock was bad enough going a few days without a case, but knowing that he had two months before he was allowed near a crime scene made Sherlock a terror to be around.

He would constantly complain about how stupid everything and everyone was, he would snap and tell John off for little to no reason, and he would pace around nonstop. He would have legs of steel by the end of the course. However, he put up with it. And the nights where he'd stay out late with Sarah really helped him- not just because he liked Sarah, but he also liked being around someone that didn't snarl at him because he moved the jar of eyeballs from the left side of the fridge to the right.

John tried to help Sherlock out. He'd bought a sudoku book for the guy in hopes of giving his brain something to do and he'd also take home ice cream on the way home as a sort of treat for the other. No dice. He was still moody as ever. Had it been anyone else, John would have snapped and told him to get over it, but this was Sherlock and John was determined to try and find a way to get him out of this slump.

He left a note for Sherlock saying that he was staying over Sarah's house that night- he had planned a romantic evening and had gotten things to cook dinner for her. But at last minute, she was called in to work and John had to insist three times that it was okay before he convinced her that he wasn't upset. He trekked back home, figuring he'd just make Sherlock dinner, instead.

However, when he got home, he was a bit surprised. Sherlock, lazing on the couch, watching crap telly. Eastenders. "I didn't know it was possible for you to get this low," he said, offering a smile to show that he didn't mean anything by it. Maybe a bit of humor would make Sherlock happy. "Sarah canceled. Do you like stew?"

What was left of the sudoku book lay scattered on the ground, ripped pages from where Sherlock had finished solving it and throwing it away as if it was from a disposable newspaper. Next to that, piles of ammo littered at his feet in which he had no doubt been abusing the wall again. And on the right of that, several used nicotine patches scrunched up across the carpet mat.

Shooting the wall simply wasn't enough anymore. After these two weeks, his energy had depleted so much that a simple task of raising a gun was a day's effort, let alone loading it with bullets. He might as well be dead, vanished, wiped out of all existence. Perhaps it was all too much to ask for that he hoped Lestrade would change his mind after having spent weeks scratching their heads over a simple case and walking through that front door again.

And just as he thoguht that, the front door did indeed open. He could barely register it, however, and only the faintest consciousness could tell him that John had returned. He didn't even know he left.

The colours displayed through the screen were blinding, nauseating. But he couldn't help but to stare at it, his neck felt stiff, and his heart was racing like a mini motor. And then came the come down on his initial high, the stomach lurching craving for more, and a deep well of discomfort in his chest. He couldn't even speak back at John, not without streaming out incoherent noises. He was far away now. And that's just how he wanted it to stay until he died.

John took the silence as normal. It wasn't unusual for the man to just clam up for a few days- it actually was one of the things that Sherlock warned him about the first day he met him. So, John decided to fill up the silence with some chatter of his own. "Sarah got called in to work. Pity. You get her dinner, though, so I suppose it's not all bad for you," he rambled, pulling out a pot to start boiling the broth.

In the mean time, John made a mug of coffee for Sherlock to drink while he waited. It was amazing how trained John was- making the man dinner and coffee and taking care of him without needing any sort of prompt. He made his way into the living room and placed the mug on the coffee table. John did grimace at the mess on the floor and he just noticed the holes in the walls. "Really, Sherlock, you could have at least spent some time cleaning up after yourself," he grumbled, crouching down to gather the shells and papers before Mrs. Hudson chewed their ears out about it.

But then he picked up a needle. Wait, what? He had to double-take at the object in his hand before it registered in his mind. He had a sneaking suspicion about Sherlock using drugs during the bust Lestrade did a couple months back- but John had brushed it off, thinking that Sherlock had done something for experiment's sake... not because he was bored.

And he didn't like this. Not at all. In fact, he was quickly finding himself more furious with Sherlock than he had been in a long time- the only time that came close was when Sherlock had been toying with Moriarty's victims' lives. "God _damn_it, Sherlock!" He threw the needle back down on the floor and stood up abruptly. Just to be a hundred percent sure, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist to extend his arm and push the sleeve to find- yes- the puncture wound, still fresh.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

John's voice washed over him like a hazy tune. He couldn't distinguish the words- he wasn't even trying. All it was now was that brilliant shining, painful television screen. Sherlock's head rolled back a bit as he slumped on the headrest, his mouth slightly agape from the total vacancy of his soul.

His pupils were so heavily dilated, it was only just possible to see the rim of his chilling hazel eyes. He could hear John shuffle closer, delivering the faintest scent of coffee. He felt a slight irritation when the sounds of his ammo shells clinked about- obviously John was trying to clean it up- but he didn't like it when people moved his stuff around. This was his own mess, without it his spot on this sofa wouldn't feel personalised.

Some loud laughter erupted from the television to which Sherlock had slammed his hand on the controller to switch it off, he had enough of it. The sounds were painful to his sensitive ears, and he was growing agitated very quickly.

It was then when he heard John's sudden outburst did Sherlock lazily lowered his eyes to see what the commotion was. He heard a faint clatter as the needle he had used was tossed so unceremoniously. The man made some form of a flinch when his arm was grabbed, naturally, and felt his brow creased with annoyance, but relaxed when he did realise it was definitely John holding him.

"John..." He slurred out, lips barely moving and his voice deep and resonated with exhaustion. "What... are you doing?"

This was not the Sherlock Holmes he knew. Sherlock was charismatic, arrogant, and ready to shoot anyone down at a moment's notice. But now, John saw no difference between the man on the sofa and some teenage junkie with nothing better to do with his life.

John wouldn't stand for any of this. He had tried too damn hard to get Sherlock out of his rut to give up now and he especially wasn't going to let this go after seeing the man's current state. Not happening.

"Up," he growled, tugging Sherlock onto his feet. John may be smaller than Sherlock, but he was a damned good fighter. Once he got the consulting detective onto his feet, John carted him off into the bathroom, pulled off the shower head, and then turned on the cold water to spray Sherlock down. He wanted to make sure he had the bastard's full attention and he didn't care if he made a mess to clean up later.

"You do NOT do that, Sherlock! Never again, you got that?"

The moment he felt the pair of strong arms lift him Sherlock issued an undignified groan as he stumbled after him. His head was spinning like a turbine gone haywire, and the nauseated feeling of the sudden movement had brought him almost to his knees if it weren't for the doctor's support.

The next thing he knew, he was engulfed in a much brighter room. The agony the light played on his eyes were too much and his visuals were getting fuzzy and shocking, yet he simply lay limp on whatever he was leaning on without the energy to protest. He felt distressed, that John had put him through this- he was a doctor. Shouldn't he be able to understand how-?

"AAGH!" The yelp carried through the bathroom and echoed down the hallway, Sherlock spluttered and flailed uselessly as the onset of cool water chiseled off what was left of the intoxication effects. His head still felt like lead, but now he was stark alert, the water soaking into his shirt and sticking down uncomfortably. "J-John- what-!" He started, though he could barely see past his fringe as it slopped over his eyes and obscuring his vision.

"What was that for?" He yelled, finally wringing the hair out of his face as he glared up, complete and utterly soppy from head to toe.

John may have gotten a bit carried away, but he couldn't help it. He had that burning, betrayed feeling in the pit of his stomach for what Sherlock had done to himself. Sure, he was going to be okay this time, but what if he overdosed? And this obviously wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this, either.

"That was for you doing heroine!" At least he had assumed it was heroine- he didn't pay attention to the finer details since he was able to tell that Sherlock was drugged but hadn't overdosed. He shut the shower head off and put it back before grabbing a towel. "Do you have any idea what that stuff does to you? God, you're so _stupid_."

He gave Sherlock a once over, his expression completely angry, upset, and distressed, but then he finally broke. He was still incredibly mad at Sherlock, but he couldn't leave him like that. Disoriented, wet, cold... John huffed and began to dab Sherlock's face dry. Once that was done, he toweled his hair. "Promise me you won't do it again, Sherlock."

It all went so fast. From one point on the sofa, to another being thrown into ice cold water, and now the fluffy feeling as John dabbed his face and ruffle the towel in his hair. Sherlock couldn't tell what to make of it, that he was overwhelmed at how abrupt John was. No one had ever stopped him before, but then no one ever really cared that he was doing drugs, besides his brother.

Sherlock fell limp again, leaning against the towel and John's hands as he continued to dry him down, a slight shiver running through his body from the biting chills at his soaked shirt.

He wasn't making promises. When did he ever do that? No one ever dared demanded him to make promises. John was such a strange one, so authoritative yet so gentle and_caring_. It confused Sherlock as to how the doctor could be this moralistic, how exhausting it was.

"Why does it matter if I take the drugs or not?" He drawled out, still hanging off the effects of the chemicals, "You're not my mother, you're just a flatmate."

He exhaled slowly and focused on his breathing to keep himself from getting too worked up over this. Why was he getting so worked up? He knew not to make Sherlock into a hero, but he admired the man for his wit and energy and to see him in this state killed him. Once Sherlock's hair wasn't dripping, John draped the towel over the other's shoulders. He wasn't about to strip the other of his wet clothes. Drugs skewed the memory and he didn't need him taking of Sherlock's clothes thrown in the mix.

_Just a flatmate_. John tensed and gave Sherlock a hurt look, but then he trained his face to hide that brief show of emotion and he straightened up his posture. "No," he said calmly, "I'm your friend. And I don't like it when you do drugs." He had no problem being blunt. "And if you won't listen to me as a friend, then listen to me as a doctor. No good comes out of it."

John grabbed another towel and crouched down so he could begin mopping up the water. He didn't need Sherlock slipping and hitting his head on the tiles.

Sherlock lounged against the bathroom wall as John went to work with the floor. The cool tiles were calming to the ebbing pain in his head, not to mention the cold shower really did help somewhat.  
>He really couldn't be bothered to move now, the thought of just collapsing here and crashing for the night seemed perfect. Slowly, he began slipping down the wall and smashed onto the floor instead, completely limp like a fish.<p>

There he became almost perfectly still, the only evident signs of life was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

John jumped slightly when Sherlock slumped on the floor. He finished mopping up the floor while Sherlock was passed out. He knew better than to just leave him like that. He'd get a stiff back on this floor and would catch a sickness in those clothes.

He very carefully picked Sherlock up bridal-style and carried him into his bedroom. To be honest, John had an easier time maneuvering through the battlefield than making his way through the mess that Sherlock called his room he then placed him down on the bed and stripped him of his clothes. John was a perfect gentleman throughout the whole thing. Once he changed Sherlock into warm clothes, he tucked him in and then went to make himself coffee.

* * *

><p>John didn't even make it to his bedroom that night. He was in the middle of sitting at the table and drinking his coffee when he flopped forwards on the table and didn't wake up until morning.<p>

He was feeling particularly disoriented when he woke up- half because that did nothing to help his stiff neck and half because nobody got a good night's sleep at the kitchen table.

His first thought was tea. Tea should soothe him a bit. Maybe he'd take a break and try and find a masseuse to go to. He felt rather zombie-like has he stood up and shuffled over to the stove to heat it up. He filled up a kettle and then placed it on the burner. Once the water was boiling, he poured a mug for himself and then a mug for Sherlock. He dipped some tea leaves in to each for flavor and waited for them to cool down.

He had a mug in each hand as he daftly shuffled right past Sherlock and Mycroft in the living room to go to Sherlock's room. He nudged the door open and looked inside, shocked to find that his flatmate wasn't there.

"Good morning, John," came Mycroft's voice from the sofa, pausing his current conversation with his brother to give John an amused look.

John spun around, feeling rather foolish, but made sure not to let that embarrassment show. Instead, he played things off coolly. "I made some tea for you," he said, voice still rough from sleep. Bugger. He really was looking forward to his tea. He resigned to passing the mugs to the two brothers before shuffling back to the kitchen to make himself some.

Most of the previous night had gone mostly forgotten, and Sherlock was mildly surprised to wake up in his own bed with his pyjamas without even remembering how he got there. But a quick look around the room and his natural skill at deduction had told him the full story.

It was obvious that John had been in this room, judging from how the assortments of his belongings had been accidentally kicked around whilst he was trying to weave past. And a quick touch at his shirt that hung above the radiator told him as much that John had sprayed him down. Then came the clothes he was wearing now. John must've stripped him one point to change him into these, but for some reason that thought hadn't really bothered Sherlock at all. Not like he had the usual social consciousness as most people.

By the time late morning came round, he had been fully dressed and punctually seated on his favourite chair as Mycroft strolled in with his usual air of lazy contentment. Sherlock had been expecting him for an hour after receiving his text and not at all keen on the visit. Yet he didn't protest as much this time considering that this was probably the most interesting event for the past two weeks.

Ugh if only he'd taken the drugs another day, and spare him this additional headache as he listened to the drawling voice of his own brother. It was as if Mycroft had known what he did and deliberately chose this day to come, knowing Sherlock was at his worst. Still, he kept silent about it knowing that his brother was the last man he wanted to know about the return of old habits. But then again, it will be a matter of time before that lazy git finds out anyway, all he had to do was look at his pupil dilation and hear the abnormal racing of his heart.

Sherlock watched, mildly amused, as John finally showed signs of awakening. The two brothers had ceased their conversation momentarily as John fumbled around the kitchen to make tea, and even more amusing yet that he didn't seem to notice they were sitting right there as he walked past to Sherlock's room.

Ah, well. It was times like these when John made mornings much better. Though, one would think a person acclimatised to war would be especially alert first thing in the morning. London can make people so lazy sometimes. And a perfect example to that was sitting right opposite to him.

Slowly, he took the cup without much comment, giving off a deep sigh as he leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs. If Sherlock wasn't pacing, he was tapping his foot, and even that started to annoy him when the only sound in that stretch of awkward silence was his relentless effort to relieve the tension. He really should get this checked up.

"Sounds dull." The detective continued on the conversation as if there had been no pause, taking a sip from his tea. "Besides I'm already busy with other things as it is."

That was a lie. Well, sort of. He _did_have some homework from his classes. But the said homework had been done within the first five minutes and tossed aside.

Mycroft knew that his brother would be a stubborn prat about this. While Mycroft had matured with age, his brother became more self-centered and childish. He laced his fingers together and twiddled his thumbs as he tried to think of a way to give his brother enough incentive to help him out.

It was a pity that Mycroft had so much capability but no will to do anything with it, and Sherlock had so much to offer, but no will to help anyone but himself. "This is of national importance, Sherlock," he reminded, not pleased about getting brushed off so easily.

By this point, John had returned with his own mug of tea (which he was definitely not sharing) and took a seat on the sofa next to Mycroft since there was nowhere else comfortable to sit. He sipped thoughtfully at his mug, watching Sherlock closely. He couldn't help but wonder what the man remembered from last night and if he'd be willing to talk about his drug problem once Mycroft left.

"If you start making any breakthroughs, I'll be able to get some licenses for you," Mycroft said, "You have enough qualifications. I can waive classes for you, but only if you do this for me."

John immediately perked up at that and glanced between Mycroft and Sherlock, hoping that the guy would take Mycroft's offer. God knows Sherlock had nothing better to do.

At the mention of the particular incentive, it took a whole lot of will power for Sherlock to not suddenly light up. He knew he hit the deadly rut in his 'career', and here Mycroft was, offering the fastest (and possibly most amusing) way out than the classes he had to live through.

It was evident that he was thinking through it seriously now as he clasped his hands together in the same old fashion as he delved into his mind. His cool steady gaze was fixed on his brother, as if figuring out if his offer was reliable, or there will be extra charges and debts to pay at the end.

National importance, what rubbish. It mattered not to him whether the country or the entire world was in jeopardy, the same way as he cared not when the next solar eclipse will come, or who was crowned King of England. All he wanted was a way back into the crime scenes. The beauty of riddles, dead bodies and serial killers on the loose. That was his life. And that was it.

"I'll think about it." He concluded with the air of disinterest, yet really he wanted nothing more but to seize this opportunity. It wasn't in his motive to give his brother any satisfaction. He took another sip from the tea as he slumped back on the chair, diverting his attention to stare at the clock above the fireplace as if he was growing impatient.

'I'll think about it' usually turned in to results for Mycroft, so he was certainly going to leave their meeting at that so he wouldn't risk upsetting his brother. "Keep in mind that licenses give you rank." His subtle way of saying that Sherlock had the possibility to boss people around and they'd actually have to listen. Granted, most people did what Sherlock wanted.

John wondered what would happen the day Sherlock outranked Anderson.

Mycroft stayed long enough so he could finish his tea out of courtesy to John. "Have a good day, Sherlock," he said, then looked over to the other and nodded, "John." He stood up and threw on his coat and added an, 'I look forward to hearing from you' before heading out the door.

John remained silent for a few moments after Mycroft left. He sipped at his tea and fidgeted a bit before asking, "do you have a minute?"

Oh, please. As if ranks ever concerned Sherlock. Mycroft should know full well by now that he had always seen himself above the law- that he is more or less in control of everything in his life without the petty statuses and licence. And in any case, he was able to elude many legal obligations ever since he devoted himself as a consulting detective for Lestrade simply by being himself.

But all in all, he had to do this in order to get permission to even walk into Lestrade's office again. It didn't matter if he was Seargent, Inspector, Superintendent or even a bloody Commissioner. To be completely honest, he'd rather have no rank at all, he hated responsibility and jobs.

Sherlock more or less ignored him as Mycroft walked out, still gazing idly at the clock that seem to have captivated his full attention. As the downstairs door closed, it left Sherlock and John both in silence. He knew John wanted to press on about the previous night, and of course, he was immediately affirmed as John brought up the question.

"Perhaps." The detective said with a resonating chill, still rather irked at Mycroft's visit. He eventually swiveled his gaze to John, his fingers entwined together in a 'ready' position in case John wanted to throw a heated debate as he did before. "I know what you are going to say."

Oh, it was so much easier to stand up to a disorientated Sherlock the night before. However, Sherlock wasn't the most intimidating thing John had experienced- but the guy was pretty high up there, which was impressive if one considered John's military background. He wasn't going to let Sherlock shake him, though. He had something important to say for Sherlock's health and he'd be damned if he didn't have it said.

"I know you know," John said placidly. Just because they were probably about to have a disagreement didn't mean that they'd have to get agitated about it and he especially didn't want to get Sherlock worked up after being already annoyed at Mycroft's visit. Instead, John leaned his elbows on his legs and regarded Sherlock carefully. "And you're probably going to get upset with me."

John gave Sherlock an apologetic look before saying, "I don't care if you think of me as a friend, Sherlock." He did care, but not for the sake of their current conversation. "But above all, I'm a doctor and I can't in good conscience let last night go. I'm not going to brush it off. If you use heroine, you have a problem. Even if it's one time. And I would appreciate it if you gave me whatever left overs that you have so I can dispose of them."

Sherlock let out a light scoff as John had assumed he would get 'upset'. And since when did anyone's opinion about himself had ever affected him? He knew he was hated by Anderson, was regarded a freak by Donovan, was an immature brat to almost everyone who had no brain, and did that ever worry him? Hardly.

As John spoke on, Sherlock continued to stare right at him, every inch of his face had remained flat, emotionless. Rather disorientating to someone who hadn't been accustomed to talking to him. After John had finished, Sherlock merely did a half roll of his eyes and sat back on his chair once again, the sign of finding this conversation totally bothersome had been evident.

He had expected this. That John would try so hard to intrude with his personal life. Had John known about how much of a mess Sherlock's life was before it would've probably killed him with shock. Taking the last swing from his tea, he set the empty cup down as he contemplated over an answer.

Disappointment had seemed to be the biggest issue between them as of late. Disappointed that Sherlock couldn't care less about people's lives. Disappointed that Sherlock couldn't do any grocery shopping for himself. Disappointed that Sherlock had complete disregard to the furniture. Why, with all this constant let downs, was John still trying to make him into a 'hero' character? There were a lot worse people out there, for one, Sherlock wasn't a _murderer_, he wasn't a criminal mastermind who blew people up for fun.

And yet, John had this persistence to make him into some sort of guardian angel he knew he'd never be. It's fine if the ex-soldier wanted to be moralistic with his own priorities, but to shove them on Sherlock as if he had the rights. His drug habits hadn't worried anyone, he hadn't been disruptive other than to himself. Really, such a hassle this was.

"Tell me, doctor." Sherlock started, with a tone of mild threat, "Are you in the least aware of how many people out there are taking drugs like me? Would you go to every one of them and beg them to stop, just because it's against your good conscience?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am aware," he grumbled, not liking that slightly threatening tone. "And I would ask each and every one of them to stop, just as I am asking you. And I wouldn't report a single one to the authorities if they're only hurting themselves because they're not going to get any better serving time for possession." Which would also clear John for not telling Mycroft or Lestrade about last night.

He really hated this. He didn't like getting into arguments with Sherlock, but such things were inevitable. And they were becoming more frequent now that their relationship was getting more complicated- they were, god forbid, talking things out and solving personal issues together. John was okay with the results that would come from it, though. Hopefully Sherlock would at least look at things from both perspectives and he would be able to give Sherlock the proper support he needed.

"But the difference between those junkies and you is that_I don't live with them_," and there were plenty more differences. "Last night you called me 'just a flatmate'. That's fine. I would have helped you like a friend, Sherlock. And I still would if you let me. But until then, I'm speaking to you as a doctor. I don't want you having_any_sort of illegal substances or abusing over the counter medicines. I can recommend the best rehab clinics in the area if that helps you. But for god's sake, Sherlock, don't let me find out you're sticking needles in yourself again."

Sherlock had almost enough with this. Never before in his life had he had someone so concerned about his well being. Even his mother had mostly been worried but never acted so much to his behaviour. He let out a steady sigh, pursing his lips into a grimace as John pressed on.

And he hardly remembered what he said last night, but it sounded just like him to say that John, the most important man to him in the world, was 'just a flatmate'. Of course, he does tend to bend the truth a lot, especially when it concerned people who were closer to him. Saying his brother was his arch enemy to cover up their bond, John should know not to take everything from Sherlock so literally.

He really doubt he'd be giving in to advice any time soon, and John didn't really have to know he was up to it again. All it took was relocating to the bedroom, and the drugs and needle was easy to hide.

"How is Sarah doing these days?" The sudden change of subject was abrupt, but nonetheless, Sherlock seemed to find it a natural progression as he casted John a beam. "You two had an awful lot of time in the past few weeks, now that you're no longer with me so much." Had there been a hint of jealousy in there? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he knew that the house wasn't all that fun when John wasn't around, that was partially why he had started drugs again.

John couldn't help taking what Sherlock had said to heart. He was typically a tough-skinned guy when he had to be, but he was particularly self-conscious about the matter just because of the realization that he had been so ready to die for a man who seemed to have no interest in sharing what little feeling that passed through him. He thought things were fine after their conversation two weeks ago. But this recent even of drug abuse changed his view on that.

But then the topic change caught him off-guard and before he even registered the question, his face instantly brightened at the name 'Sarah'. In fact, he was so distracted that he forgot to go back to their previous discussion and he didn't notice the hint of jealousy. "She's doing well, thank you," he said, smiling. "Asks about you a lot." He didn't mean to leave Sherlock on his own so much, but typical adults knew how to deal with themselves without a friend around constantly. And sometimes, Sherlock was just so unbearable with his whining and complaining that he needed a break.

"If you want company, I can invite her here more often. I just figured I wouldn't bother you since you didn't like her last time."

Sherlock had kept the smile emblazoned on his lips, a little too exaggerated if one was looking in on the conversation, but John seemingly didn't realise this.

He couldn't care less about Sarah, in fact, it would've been best if she was gone. And of course she'll ask about him. After all, Sherlock had known that Sarah saw him as some kind of outlandish wild animal on the loose, no doubt asking whether he's been gallivanting London again, as if his lifestyle was somewhat exotic.

What intrigued Sherlock so much was how John even put up with the mundanities of an average life. The loss of his psychosomatic limp was enough to say that he thrived on the adventure side, yet he would continue to torture himself with such petty relationships. Now Sherlock wondered to himself what John would do if Sherlock left him to Sarah. Would he try to come back? To choose Sherlock over his girlfriend?

The detective stretched out on the chair as he kept up the act of interest, too happy to be natural but whatever works. "Oh _sure_. I would love it if she came round, I haven't seen her in a while. Perhaps you'd want to go to the cinema, catch a movie. I wouldn't mind that."

At first, John seemed to be pleased that Sherlock was smiling and actually having a real life, one-one-one conversation rather than the one-sided rants where he spoke his lungs out while everyone else had to sit and listen. If they were lucky, they would be addressed about how stupid they were.

He knew what Sherlock's views on relationships were, so he knew better than to take that smile seriously. He scowled briefly as if to let Sherlock know that he was on to his sarcasm and it was not appreciated. But then the words came out of the other's mouth and John's face immediately lit up again and he wore a wide smile.

"And then after we can come back to the flat and microwave eyeballs and talk about how great you are," he said, sounding entirely too happy to be doing such a task.

"Oh, John, you are far too kind. It's wonderful to know you agree about my intelligence."

It was amusing how the two flatmates seem to banter like a married couple, even Mycroft said so himself that he might expect some announcement at the end of the first week. Most of the times when Sherlock spat sarcasm at people it would be because he was angry or patronizing them, yet with John, it was as little as a joke... well, with the touch of his natural snide.

"Now... it's almost ten. Weren't you supposed to be going to your clinic? I'm sure Sarah is waiting for you." Sherlock purred, crossing his legs as he did and looking at John with such intensity as if he was ushering him out the door merely by his gaze.

John gave that shy-but-happy look at the mention of Sarah's name. Oh, he really was a romantic. Still, his eyes glanced away for a moment only because he'd been enjoying the banter and, even though Sarah as there, he'd rather do nothing with Sherlock than work there right now.

He disappeared up the stairs to get changed, brush his teeth, and comb his hair before heading back down the stairs. "Text me by five if you want me to bring anything home," he said, waving a good-bye to Sherlock.

John began to hum to himself as he made his way out of 221B and then hailed a taxi to take him to work. He would have walked, but he was running a little late as it was.

**Reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	3. Confession

**Chapter Rating**: PG-13

**Summary Plot:** After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.  
><strong>Comments:<strong> Hey guys. This is a combined fic between (LJ) **eyesofsociopath** as Sherlock, and (LJ) **idkhowtodothis** as John. I'm not sure if this will be any good as the format might be confusing. It lacks the transition since I'm too lazy to edit haha.

But either way, there is a very long plot to this and we spent several months on it already. So if you would spare the time, please enjoy : )

*P.S: Please excuse the mistakes!

**Chapter 3 - Confession**

It started raining. The light tapping of the droplets on the misty window panes and the rumble of a distant thunder had a certain calm effect within Baker Street. Sherlock sat comfortably on the living room sofa. The room was dimming down as it approached late evening, and the faint sunset glow of the lamp beside him was the only source of light. He hadn't moved from his spot since afternoon which was a surprising feat considering his recent habits.

The silence within the house was long missed now that Sherlock wasn't terrorising the furniture. For a few times, Mrs Hudson had even summed up enough bravery to pop in for a little check up in his living room- as if thinking there had been something wrong that would induce this sudden peace. And as she stepped in, what brilliant sight that greeted her couldn't make her any more relieved.

It was as if the scene was brought out of a story book. The classic image as the detective sat slouched over, with elbows resting on his knees and hands pressed to his lips. There was faint crease on his brow, and his quicksilver eyes darkened as he delved into deep concentration.

Sherlock Holmes was back. And it was time to work.

It was almost as if the room was buzzing with the unnamed energy that radiated from his mind, the piercing clarity of his thoughts powerful and precise. He missed this. He missed mind work. This was what he lived for. And he couldn't be any happier saying that.

The clock struck seven, complimented with the faint rusty chime. It was then when Sherlock finally tore his eyes away for the first time in hours, and having to re-adjust to the change of lighting. He could go on so long without realising the time, and his muscles were stiff from sitting still.

John should be back soon, and if he didn't come back within the next half hour Sherlock will sure text him. After all, it was almost time for tea, and he was bloody thirsty.

* * *

><p>Work at the office was okay sometimes and dreadful at others. He loved being a doctor but this was hardly like any of the action he saw in Afghanistan. Back there, he felt like he had a purpose- because he did. He had to deliver quick and efficient services or else people died. Here, he was treating people with made-up colds or people who were addicted to painkillers.<p>

Granted, there were the people who honestly did need a bit of help, and he was more than happy to serve them. But they were just a small handful in the sea of all the others.

John did get a bit of a break when it came lunchtime. Sarah snuck into his office and locked the door. He barely was able to get through half his sandwich before she was in his lap, snogging him. And how could he resist? He cared deeply for her and this was certainly a nice surprise. They had barely gotten to groping when lunch break was over and John had to stuff his food down his mouth in order to finish it before the next patient.

Once six rolled around, John clocked out for the day, kissed Sarah good-bye, and then made his way down the road back to 221B Baker Street. He stopped on the way to pick up a dozen doughnuts, figuring it had been a while since he brought sweets home.

He went to the flat, surprised to see a calm Sherlock sitting on the sofa, looking involved in something. What it was, he didn't know- and either way, it was nice to see Sherlock up and running again. "Productive day?"

The moment he heard the front door rattle, Sherlock had immediately seized all of the stolen documents on the table and stowed them under the sofa. As the doctor walked in he simply passed him a glance, the innocent contemplative look in his eyes were nothing but deceiving.

John hadn't known anything about his progress yet. He wasn't too sure if he wanted to tell him, despite that debate they had weeks ago, he still found himself reluctant to bring him in. It was childish, he knew, but it was too late now. He had already done most of the action after breaking into the Government building twice, and it was mostly brain work from now on. So even if he wanted his flatmate involved... well... there wouldn't be anything for him to do.

A quick study of his flatmate told him as much what he'd been doing that day. A faint scent of a woman's perfume- no doubt he caught a moment with Sarah during lunch break, seeing as that was the only time they had free, and judging by the prompt arrival on his way home with the full bag of doughnuts told him that he did not walk back with her otherwise he would offer her at least one.

"Not really." Sherlock didn't hesitate to lie, pushing the tiny corners of the documents further under the sofa with his foot. "How was work?"  
>Poor John had no idea that Sherlock was deceiving him and already had a more eventful day than John certainly had. Right now, John was happy enough to find that Sherlock wasn't bored anymore. Not like it should matter to him that much, but it also was a hell of a lot easier to deal with the consulting detective when he had a case he could sink his teeth in to.<p>

He placed the bag of doughnuts on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa, figuring that Sherlock would help himself if he wanted one. Speaking of wanting one, John pulled out a doughnut with jam filling and began to eat it. He didn't feel like cooking just yet but he needed something to hold him over.

"Well, 'not really' to you means you were up to something decent. Did Lestrade pull you in for a second opinion today?" Maybe the poor guy couldn't last as long as he thought without Sherlock.

John shrugged. "Normal, easy. I don't exactly get to put much of my skills to use there. But it was nice."

Sherlock merely gave the bag of doughnuts a disapproving look as it was placed on the table, though he hadn't said much about it. He liked a bit of sugar in his system, be it from his coffee or his tea. But a hefty snack was too much, and it will bound to slow down his thought process.

He merely shuffled on the sofa as John further questioned him, obviously he was appearing suspicious that he could read past his lie. "Oh, no Lestrade hasn't come back to me, yet. Not that I have time for him anyway." As he said that, he took out his Blackberry from his pocket and flashed a text to John, "This, however, came up. Someone obviously went onto my website and saw that I was open for cases. A petty problem with a disappearing house pet. Usually I wouldn't bother, but it was something to do."

That case was sent to him a week ago, but John didn't need to know that. As long as he didn't suspect Sherlock of gallivanting through the Government buildings without him, it's all fine.

"You should work in the A&E department at the local hospital. I'm sure you'll have more fun there than a clinic."

Okay, so that was a no on the doughnuts. More for him, then. Maybe he'd take some of the leftover to Sarah's next time he went there for dinner or to spend the night. He should probably set something up with her since Sherlock was getting back into his cases and he wasn't sure how long it would be before he'd start getting dragged into their little adventures again. He liked them, though.

John glanced at the telephone screen and nodded. "Well, it certainly is better than nothing," he said, grinning a bit. He didn't suspect the man at all even though he found it a bit peculiar for such a simple case to put him in such an alert mood. Maybe the guy was just so happy to finally have another case.

"I probably would, but their hours are irregular and I have to be on call all the time," he said, shrugging. "I wouldn't be able to help you out if you need a doctor's opinion if I'm stuck at work. Besides... work is the only set time I know I can have with Sarah."

Sherlock had to admit, the thought of John working for the A&E department wasn't too pleasing to him either. John was right, his hours would be irregular and that would mean less time with him. Why he even suggested that at first was beyond him.

And again, going back to Sarah. He couldn't help but to roll his eyes at that. It seemed that John's world revolved around her regardless. Honestly, Sherlock couldn't understand this constant need for attention. What made it so that people attach themselves to another so much? He was just as fun as her, surely.

After a small period of silence, Sherlock finally made a move to get up. He wasn't one for small talk, and seeing as John hadn't had much to say himself, it was time to make his leave. The sofa scrunched under his weight as he slid off, delivering a small performance as he stretched out his stiff back, his arms and straightened down his shirt. He might call it a night for now, and it wasn't like he could freely examine the documents when John was still walking about. Perhaps he'll get back up in a few hours... that way he had the whole night to himself.

"Shower." He said simply as he lazily started his way to the bathroom.

John didn't take any offense at the sudden leave. He just gave a little nod and watched the man as he left. Sherlock was an amazingly brilliant man, but the poor guy never knew how to keep up a conversation. Oh well.

He was going to make pasta, but that involved using the water and Sherlock was in the shower. He didn't feel like making the water too hot or too cold for the guy and end up making him grumpy, so he decided to clean while he waited for Sherlock to finish up. The flat was always a mess no matter how hard he tried, but he was at least able to tame it so it didn't get too out of hand.

He started with the living room, first. He put the doughnuts in the kitchen and then straightened up the rest of the contents on the coffee table- books, pocket watches, pens. He looked on the floor to make sure that there wasn't anything small that he could step on with bare feet and hurt himself and he noticed a few handgun shells he had missed. John got down on his knees to pick it up and accidentally brushed one beneath the couch. He reached under to grab it, but felt his hand hit against a small stack of papers.

Thinking nothing of it, he pulled it out and figured that it might have been some old case that Sherlock didnt' feel like filing away and forgot about. But then he saw the government seal and it was all downhill from there. His heart skipped a beat and he started to feel a bit sick as he continued to read through the documents.

No. _No_, that bloody _bastard_. At least before, Sherlock would blatantly tell him to bugger off if he didn't want John's help. Now he was blocking him out entirely even after their conversation to keep that from happening. John began to feel angry and foolish for being so loyal to a man who lied through his teeth at him, used him as his housekeeper, and refused to let him join in on something that he knew kept him sane. His chest felt tight and his left hand began to tremble again.

John stood up and stormed into Sherlock's room to throw the papers down on a random shelf. Fine. If Sherlock wanted to be a selfish bastard, so be it. But the least he could bloody do was keep _his_ case files out of the parts of the flat that they _shared_. On his way out he brought a hand up to brush away an angry tear that threatened to fall and in his moment of blindness, he accidentally knocked in to a flower pot and it came crashing down onto the floor and the clay shattered and the contents splashed over the floor. At first, he though nothing of it since Sherlock's room was a disaster. But he looked down and found something that enraged him even more. A considerably large stash of heroin, and Sherlock's trusty needle. He didn't even bother to pick the drugs up, but he took the needle and sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

That was it, they were having a talk. No, not a talk. It was John's turn to have his rant and Sherlock damned well better listen. He held the needle in his right hand since he didn't have as much control over his left- damn it- but he'd occasionally lift it to wipe away another tear as he waited for Sherlock to return.

Sherlock relished the feeling as the water gently fell on him. It had been a few days since he last took a shower, he didn't have the time ever since he started on his case.

A thorough scrub down on his body and he felt a lot better, and not long after that tweaking the shower off and stepping back out. Thankfully there hadn't been that much steam so he could easily check the mirror as his combed his matted hair. He didn't quite like the water too hot, usually having it as cool as possible without making it uncomfortable. It was always a case of feeling alert with Sherlock, and a cold shower complimented him spectacularly.

As he slipped on his bathrobes he perked his head up as he heard a distant shatter of clay, but didn't think much of it as it was probably an accident that John dropped a cup or Mrs Hudson knocking over the corridor vase.

By the time he was back out in the corridor, the flat had been relatively quiet. He had expected some noises from the kitchen, surely John couldn't have gone to bed right away? Sherlock naturally went back to the living room to check. The light was still on, and there had been signs where John had scuffled around the carpet to clean up. He called out for him, just to be sure that he won't suddenly appear, then after hearing no response, swooping down and reaching under the sofa.

Then he froze. Where were his documents?

With a swift strong push, Sherlock lifted the end of the sofa so he could scan the floor. He was _sure_that he left them here... How could they possibly-?

Oh. Sherlock felt his chest tighten. Obviously.

Dropping the sofa back down with a slam, Sherlock was back on his feet and striding fast back to his room. He could tell that John had already been here, the faint smell of that perfume was an evident trail. Without hesitation, he threw open the door and the first thing his eyes landed on was John's face. And then the needle.

It was as if something crashed down on his shoulders. He could feel a sudden dead weight, threatening to pull him to his knees. He was still clutching the door handle, and now starting to feel the abstract tingle from the cool metal on the palm of his hands as he watched with bated breath at what was to come. Oh- and there the documents were, sitting on the shelf. Right. So John found them. Oh... bugger.

"John..." Sherlock could feel his voice croak, he hadn't realised how much he was straining it. He'd never seen him so _angry _before, so angry that even he couldn't mistaken it. The very air in the room was thick. John had been crying- no... just tearing up. Oh- damn, when did Sherlock ever become a coward to look into someone's eyes? He could glare straight into a psychopath's gaze without breaking, he could look right at a gun point and laugh at it. He could watch as someone died at his feet, and merely care for his own sake. And yet...

Here he was, feeling the heart throb in his chest, and feeling the nauseating feeling as the beatings rose to his throat. This was guilt. He knew now. This had to be, but he couldn't relish the accomplishment that he would usually feel when he first truly understood something. And for once, wishing he never knew what it was.

John tensed when he heard the sofa being pushed about. No doubt, Sherlock was wondering where those bloody papers were. Damn him and his papers. And despite his hurt and anger, there was the grim satisfaction that he (accidentally) managed to catch Sherlock when the man thought he had covered his tracks so well. He hoped that Sherlock was regretting hiding them from him, already. Because John felt like an absolute fool for trusting him so easily.

When he heard the footsteps approaching, he grit his teeth and forced the threatening tears to stop so that, by the time Sherlock entered , he was giving him the most angered look he had given in a long, long time. John was typically a quiet, easygoing and understanding man...but Sherlock crossed the line and he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Don't," he growled when Sherlock said his name. John found himself on his feet and gripping the needle so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Just _don't_." He felt his throat tighten because he saw that Sherlock was starting to feel whatever guilt a sociopath could have, but he wasn't just going to let it slide.

"I told you not to go behind my back, Sherlock. If you didn't want me around you could have at least said it to my face, rather than leading me on and just lying to me!"

He held up the needle. "And then there's this! You godawful drug addict- you're lucky I'm not calling Lestrade on you." He threw the needle into the garbage with more force than necessary. "Get rid of it, Sherlock. Right now, every last bit."

Sherlock stayed at the door, cold and still, his eyes never leaving John as he stood from his bed. He almost flinched when the needle was thrown down, the loud clang as it hit the bin and ringing in the silence.

After what seemed like hours, he then let out a slow breath to release some of the sick tension in his chest, and slowly slipping his hand off the door handle. It was bad enough that John had uncovered the heroin, but what would be much worse was that if he'd ever found out his cocaine stash. Heroin hardly pleased Sherlock enough, and he only temporarily went on that to calm him down. Yet it was mostly the cocaine he ran on, and as Lestrade remembered clearly at the first day Sherlock had burst into a crime scene, high off his head as he hammered him down with facts and solutions to the case he'd been stuck on for months.

He knew he wasn't going to reveal that if anything, he was more of a coke addict, but it was the same thing either way. John didn't care what Sherlock took, the fact that he's even touching illegal substances seem to infuriate him.

"John." Sherlock tried again after a moment, taking a tentative step forward.

Now came to the other problem. His lying. Yes, Sherlock was a liar. He was a heartless pathological liar when needed to be. He could easily manipulate people with his false acts, his empty words, the fake charming smile enticing his victims. John fell for it, John fell right in. And Sherlock felt bad. Why did he feel bad?

Because John was the only person Sherlock had ever trusted? Because John was truly loyal to him and that Sherlock unfairly deceived him? He knew it was wrong... yet he wanted to protect him. It was selfish, everything he did was selfish. John was being selfish that he should use Sherlock's unnatural life habits to help heal himself of his trauma.

"I didn't want you getting hurt again. And even if I told you, you would still follow me. That's what I'll do if you ever told me you were about to go risk your life." It was true, he was being honest. He was afraid that he would lose John. Such a disgusting vulnerability that was brought to his attention by no other than Jim Moriarty. He had never panicked so much before as he first saw John strapped up in the explosives- his life hanging by a thread. Any wrong move, any mistake Sherlock made...

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John was at wit's end. He wasn't thinking as clearly as usual and whatever came out of the man's mouth wasnt trusted.

"Stop lying to me," he snapped, tensing up. As much as those words would have made him feel better in any other circumstance, it only hurt John more...because he thought this was just another one of Sherlock's twisted manipulations to get John to do what he wanted. Because Sherlock was a heartless, pathological liar and the only reason why he would follow John into danger was just to get a rush.

"Don't talk to me," he growled, knowing that he was starting to get irrational and he'd react poorly to whatever the other said. So to save them both the risk of saying something crippling and venomous, he was going to have some time to cool down.

His limp returned a bit as he made his way to the heroine and picked it up since Sherlock wasn't. "You have no idea how angry I am with you," he grumbled. Once he gathered it all, he stood up. Sherlock was in his way, though. "Move."

There was no chance of Sherlock letting this one go. He was much too stubborn to let John walk off like this. He needed him to understand.

He could see the effects this was having on John, his trembling hand- the psychosomatic limp, it was painful to watch. There was a temptation to kneel down and help him collect the heroin- but seeing what state John was in, it was much of a risk even being in the same room as him now.

Sherlock didn't move as his friend turned to him, no intention on budging one bit. His eyes were firm and reignited with determination. John was planning on leaving him here like this? Not so fast.

"I'm not done talking to you yet." The detective said firmly, his voice low and growing steadily impatient. People did _not _ignore him. Ever. "John. Listen. Please."

No. He was not in the mood for dealing with this right now. He was more than forgiving and accommodating to Sherlock and after being stabbed in the back, the least Sherlock could do was give him his space. He seemed to like spacing them, anyways, if his excursion was anything to go by.

So yes. Somebody did ignore Sherlock Holmes, and his name was John Watson. It killed him to be so honestly upset with Sherlock but he couldn't stand being in the same room with him right now.

So now Sherlock wanted him to listen? Too late. Maybe another day, but certainly not now. He shot the man a glare. "No," he growled. "I listen to _you_ all the bloody time. Now you listen to _me_!" He had to raise his left hand and tried to keep it steady as he pointed a finger at him and jabbed his chest. "Get out of my way."

So this is how he wanted to play. John didn't know full well how aggressive Sherlock can be, and he can be so much if he wanted his way. He was losing patience fast, and he wasn't the best man to argue with. It mattered not now how angry John was, because walking away doesn't simply solve the problem, he had to deal with it now.

The moment he felt John's finger on him, he immediately shot his hand up to grab it. Then wasting no time as he pushed him back roughly, flinging him down on the bed and pinning him there with surprising strength from his lean body.

"John. I'm warning you!" He hissed, white knuckle and furrowed brows as his glare drilled deep into the man's eyes.

John, as much as he hated to admit it, was taken by surprise. And it was one of the most ego-crushing things for a soldier to be caught off guard. All too quickly, he found himself pinned down to the bed. His blood boiled and his cheeks went red in frustration. And then survival instincts kicked in.

John was on the short side, but he was a trained soldier and packed a considerable amount of power. He used his legs to force Sherlock's weight off balance and spun so he was the one pinning Sherlock. He had his right hand pinning Sherlock's hands above his head and then his left forearm pressing lightly down on his throat to keep the man from lifting up.

"Shut up!" He was feeling terrible for treating Sherlock like this, already, but he couldn't take being betrayed like this. "I'm stronger than you are! I'm not going to die if I go along with you! And god damn it, you're going to kill yourself with an overdose one day!"

The flip had been so sudden- so unexpected. It never occurred to Sherlock that he had never been on a one-on-one wrestle with John before. True, he was faster than him. Much faster, much more agile. But the soldier was naturally stronger and built for combat. It didn't matter either way. He went up against guys twice his size before and pulled it off, but in those times he wasn't so mindlessly frustrated.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he was pinned down in return, his arms shaking as they pushed back with the hand holding them down. "Why does it even _bother _you so much? I'm just your bloody friend!" He could feel his heart racing now, blood rushing to his ears as he glared hot fury at the man above him.

He couldn't understand. No one, no one has ever done this before. Why must it be that John had to be so goddamn difficult! Perhaps he was approaching it the wrong way- if that's so. Then fine. "Fine. Let's do it your way. Yell it all out! I'm listening!" Sherlock snarled, twisting his arms out of John's grip and wrenching it away but making no move to fight back.

Why did it bother him so much? What did it matter if Sherlock overdosed or left him out of his adventures? Sherlock didn't have any obligation to involve him in the first place. And even friends didn't take each other around all the time to do break-ins or keep each other updated when they were about to do something dangerous or incredibly foolish.

And yet, John wanted to be involved in all of that. And when Sherlock finally gave in enough to let John rant and rave and carry on, no words formed. His mind was racing and his throat went painfully dry. No words, just one action.

Before he could think twice about it, he buried his hands in Sherlock's damp, dark hair and kissed him with more emotion than he ever gave Sarah. He pressed himself down on the other, giving in to that impulse to just hold on to him and be close to him and never let go. His heart pounded in his chest and his pulse roared in his ears until he pulled back, immediately realizing the repercussion of his action. He had crossed that line that Sherlock had clearly set their first night out. He let his emotions take over basic logic, and he cheated on Sarah.

And incredibly large wave of guilt washed over him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock. Trying to prove that he could be a good and useful friend- not some git who wanted to snog him. Suddenly, he couldn't look Sherlock in the eye and he numbly pushed himself away. "That's why," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper before he quickly turned away, headed out the door, and went to his room.

Whatever Sherlock was expecting, whether it was a five hour non-stop angry rant or a slap to the face or even a kick to his groin, nothing, in his thirty four years of his life, could prepare him for the next move.

Sherlock laid still- paralyzed- as something warm, something rough and something sweet swooped down and pressed against his lips. It hadn't been the first time his mind had gone numb with shock- but it was this same man who had done it before, and he did it- he was doing it again. The siege of his brain power could almost be heard as it slowly shut down to a standstill. Sherlock was being kissed, not by anyone, but by the man he had just been wrestling with, just been wrangling a full out debate with knives to their throats.

He couldn't figure out how it managed to come to this. But then, he had never been kissed before. Could kissing be regarded as an aggressive attack? No, that was silly, that was just his dead brain speaking.

Sherlock remained speechless the doctor broke off. His eyes now widened with surprise, but not disappointment or disgust. Rather, he was intrigued, studying John- studying him like a test subject. The taste still lingered in his mouth, the faint sweet tang of the jam, the light bitterness of coffee he had for lunch, some fragrance of some sort- no doubt from Sarah's lipstick.

But it didn't matter what it tasted like- Sherlock had realised, it was the action. The presumable emotion that had meant to be behind it. His mind was clicking again- so what did this really mean? People kiss when they're in love, that he knew. But people also kiss when they lust for another. It was rather stupid to think John had 'loved' Sherlock, and he knew himself that he had experiences with men and women who had wanted him physically before.

The weight that had pinned the detective down had suddenly lifted, and before he knew it, the doctor had already been on his way out the door before Sherlock could even call him back or come to his proper senses.

This... was very interesting.

**Reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	4. Explanation?

**Chapter Rating**: PG-13

**Summary Plot:** After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.  
><strong>Comments:<strong> Thanks for the reviews!

Shizuku - Thank you very much!

FoxyWolfyPlushie - Thank you!

mama rocks - I literally just posted this story yesterday so I don't think anyone should expect much from it xD But thank you very much for reviewing!

**Chapter 4 - Explanation?**

Guilt. Overwhelming, stabbing guilt. John collapsed into his bed and held his pillow tightly against his chest and fell still. He ruined everything- Sherlock would surely stay away from him more than ever now that John had crossed the line and he'd never be able to look Sarah in the eye every day at work or as they fell asleep in her house. He had to tell her- but he didn't know how.

Hi, Sarah. I snogged my flatmate. Please forgive me?

He knew that she would forgive him, though. Sarah was understanding like that and it was only one kiss. But it would disappoint the hell out of her and John didn't want to bring that sort of emotion upon her.

What killed him the most was he wanted to kiss Sherlock again.

He had a taste, and just once wasn't enough. Sherlock's skin was so soft and his body was so comfortable to lay against. And even though he knew that any sort of relationship beyond detective and doctor was impossible, he wanted to be there. If it came down to choosing between being a couple with Sarah or being friends with Sherlock, he knew he'd choose Sherlock. Romance wasn't a big issue to him. Yes, it was quite nice, but Sherlock gave him life and John wanted to return the favor to him.

And that was why he needed to stomp out whatever spark he ignited with that kiss so he could keep their friendship.

That night, he had a fitful, uneasy sleep. He woke up several times until finally, at around seven in the morning, he couldn't go back to sleep. He shuffled back downstairs and began to make coffee and breakfast for Sherlock and himself, still not looking forward to whatever reaction the man had... but he wanted to at least try and fix whatever he had broken. His behavior last night was unacceptable.

So. Sherlock obviously hadn't slept that night. In fact, he hardly even moved from his spot since John left. He was staring up at the ceiling, not even bothering to keep track of time, though the steady increase of the sounds of traffic outside had told him as much that it was at least six in the morning.

A quick glance at the window- the dark hues of nightfall was gradually brightening, though it wouldn't get much better than that. London had it's reputation for the dullest of weather. It was definitely morning now, and there was no chance of him sleeping. With that decision made, Sherlock finally made the effort to push himself off the bed, his wild fringe falling upon his eyes as he sat contemplative at the edge of the mattress for a good few minutes.

He wasn't sure how he should approach this, but he wasn't feeling the anxiety people with a normal social functionality would. He was just simply curious. Maybe if he would talk it through with John... after all, for once, John was the expert in this sort of thing. It took less than an hour to get dressed and prepare himself, he had plans later for the day, so he might as well do it now while he had the chance. Who knows what might turn out from this talk.

As he approached the kitchen, he picked up the sounds of a kettle and the sizzling on the stove. So John had been up early too and making breakfast as normal. Generous, yet he'd expected John to sleep in or cave in his room for the most part. Sherlock slid to the door frame quietly and stood there for a moment, watching his flatmate rummaging the fridge. Sherlock knew he should choose his words carefully. But a chance for him to choose an adequate opening to a normal conversation was almost close to nil.

"You didn't sleep well." Was what he came up with, though usually he'd pick 'Good morning', except, it wasn't really a good morning. Not for John anyway. "Stiff back. Sweating around the brow. Dark rings under your eyes." Yes, that's right Sherlock. Go and deduce, if it wasn't obvious. What else could he say?

Wait, he knew what else. "Are you alright?" He said, softly, after clearing his throat.

John was just finishing up egg omelets for the both of them when Sherlock spoke. Oh, he hadn't even noticed that his flatmate was there. John was so absorbed in his thoughts and trying to find if there was any way to excuse his actions as 'acceptable' last night. But there was no excuse for what he had done and there was no way he could pretend it didn't happen.

Sherlock was emotionally retarded, to be put bluntly. He was the most brilliant man John had ever met, but he had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. How could Sherlock understand what John wanted to say, but couldn't? What he thought, how he felt? He didn't want Sherlock to have to think about that or to have to try and make sense out of an emotion that was hardly logical at all. He tensed slightly at the sound of the other's voice, not sure what to expect.

To be honest, the comment was reassuring. Normal Sherlock. As if nothing had happened. But then Sherlock asked if he was all right and that was not normal Sherlock. The question was appreciated, though, and John decided it was time to sort things out. "I've been better," he said honestly, sliding the eggs onto a plate for each of them.

It was a miracle that he was able to face Sherlock as he spoke. "I'm sorry about last night," he said honestly. "I want to be a good friend to you, Sherlock. What I did was irrational and selfish, so please think anything of it."

The eggs smelt good. And Sherlock usually wasn't the one to be tempted with food, especially in the morning where he wanted to reboot his mind. But then he realised that he hadn't eaten, not since he started on his new case. Sherlock's eyes never left John's, another thing he might want to fix later, giving someone social space and privacy. The way he perched at the doorway almost hawk like as he pinned the doctor down with a calculating look, as if trying to ween out whether he was lying or not.

"No... no you wouldn't want me to forget it if you're so bothered by it." And, if he remembered correctly, good friends don't 'kiss' each other. Well, not that he knew of. "Do you want me?"

Yes, Sherlock was blunt. _Really _blunt, and he didn't care. All he wanted was a straight answer, yes, no, scratch a maybe. He can't tolerate with indecisive people, one of the reasons he never was interested in women.

At first, John was even more nervous when Sherlock refused to just drop it. And he was giving him that analyzing look, to. Anyone could feel violated with Sherlock looking at someone, gathering their life story by what clothes they wore and what sort of tan they had. But then there came that question.

For once in his life, he was beyond thankful that Sherlock's view on romance was black or white.

Despite all the guilt and everything that had happened, John found himself smiling. "No, I don't," he answered. Not in the way Sherlock was thinking of, but it was still an honest answer. He made a black with two sugars for Sherlock and then a mug of coffee with milk and sugar for himself. He placed down the plates and the drinks on opposite sides of the table before sitting down.

John realized that Sherlock was the type of person to dwell on things... things he couldn't solve often nagged away at him, so John figured that this was all his fault and he should at least try to fix everything he had messed up. "Do you have any other questions?"

Oh Sherlock had questions. Oh, he had questions alright. As John placed down his breakfast on the table, Sherlock had been reminded very much of an interrogation room. Facing each other, inquiring. This is all that it is. He wanted answers, and John was his suspect.

As he sat down on the seat opposite, he immediately resumed his 'thinking' position, his eyes frighteningly still and piercing. John didn't want him. But John kissed him. So did John love him? But why would he love him? He was with Sarah. And they were _fighting _last night, you don't just kiss your opponent. Or have they been teaching otherwise in the army these days?

"Why did you do that?" Came the cutting question, almost as harsh as an accusation and without the flutter of any social warmth, but it was just Sherlock's way of speaking. "Do you kiss other men too?"

John tried to keep himself calm and collected despite the way Sherlock was treating this like an interrogation... but it made him feel better that this was the way things were going to be sorted out. This was Sherlock's comfort zone and John was going to be as open as he can. It was the least he could do. An to be honest, it was almost endearing the way Sherlock was trying to make sense out of a spur-of-the-moment instinct.

"I'm not sure," John said, cutting up his omelet into squares. "Sometimes, my emotions get the better of me and I do something without thinking." That made enough sense, right? Surely, Sherlock had to understand basic human impulses even if he didn't have any.

"And I have kissed other men before."

Sherlock merely sniffed a bit when John had mentioned that he had previous experience. He wasn't sure- but he felt a small twinge of discomfort at the thought.

The omelette remained untouched, despite the smell that wafted from it was fresh and alluring, but Sherlock had trained himself not to get side tracked, not while he was thinking. Or maybe he was taking this too seriously... John hadn't appeared too uncomfortable though. And that's why Sherlock liked him so much, he was able to put up with him and accept him for who he was.

Sherlock did understand impulse. In fact, he was full of impulse. The majority of his actions had been spontaneous. If he wanted to go to Belarus, he'll book a plane right away. If he wanted to invest in a complete passing stranger for later use, he'll give them the money right away. If he wanted to chase a goddamn cab driver, he'll jump right out his seat and sprint like a mad man gone loose.

So John's action could be understandable. But usually impulse had underlying intentions. You can't just do things you'd never do, you do things that you want to do- at that moment in time.

"When you asked me..." Sherlock started slowly, finally bringing his eyes up as he thought back, "... if I had a _boyfriend_... Did you want me then?"

"Oi," John huffed when he heard the small noise in response to his confession of dabbling. "There's nothing wrong with it." And there was Harriet, too, who was married to another woman. John had grown up knowing that homosexual relationships were just as fine as heterosexual ones. When he and his sister were young and still on good terms, they often shared crushes on the same boys and girls.

Now he could sympathize how his patients felt every time he had to ask the usual set of questions. 'Are you sexually active? Do you have any STDs? When was the last time you had your period?' So it was a good thing that John was a doctor who was used to personal questions and that he had just grown to accommodate whatever odd quirk Sherlock had.

"No, I didn't," he said, eating a piece of his breakfast. "I've never wanted you like that."

"I never said there was anything wrong with it." Sherlock said dismissively, honestly, he was the last person anyone would suspect to be homophobic, "And what do you mean you never 'wanted me like that'?" By now, he felt a growing impatience building in him. Why couldn't John just tell him? "You want me in another way? How?"

This was terrible. Terrible. He was glad he had never meddled with emotions before, but yet that would've been a bit appreciated that he had some knowledge of it now.

Scratch that about being happy about Sherlock not understanding emotion. It looks like he was going to have to start with square one here. However, John managed to keep his patience and simply took a sip of his coffee as he tried to think of the simplest way possible to explain this.

"I've never wanted to have a physical relationship with you just because I find you physically attractive," he cleared up. "I'd never do that with anyone." That much was true. He'd find people attractive, yes, but he wouldn't want mindless snogging and shagging just because someone's pretty or handsome.

He scratched his chin, trying to think of more to explain without overloading the guy with too much. "There are different levels of friends. There are acquaintances, friends, best friends..." He wasn't going to explain the concept of friends with benefits. "I wanted you as a friend. That's all. I was upset that you didn't think of me as a friend since you got those files behind my back."

Sherlock blinked, allowing the information to process and attempt to relate it to the stunted part of his limbic system. He brushed his fingers on his lips as he played around with the thoughts. He never really met anyone who didn't want his body, his physical attraction was his main point, and his personality was rotten.

Yet John seem to think otherwise.

And yes, Sherlock admitted, it was his mistake not to tell John about the files. Even he knew that was considered distrustful. He let out a small sigh as he lowered his arms. Should he apologise? He never genuinely apologised to anyone before. But John had seemed to take it really badly, and it hurt Sherlock to see him suffering so much.

"That- yes. Alright. I'm sorry." The words came out quietly and a little too quick, almost as if it wasn't sure it came out the right mouth. But when Sherlock pressed on further, it was unmistakable now. " I'm sorry. I do think you as a friend. I want you helping me on the case."

And he already had an idea. John was going to love it. Maybe. And this is the only time he can prove it to him.

"Join me? Tonight." Then he paused, thinking back on his words. It sounded wrong. "I mean- I'll be going out again to the Parliament. Just... wondered if you wanted to come along..."

John used the silence as an excuse to eat some more of his food. He knew better than to get too nervous about it because-well, he was telling the truth. He didn't want Sherlock because of his good looks.

Problem was, John needed him.

He relaxed and started to sip at his coffee, instead. And then the apology came that took John completely by surprise. He couldn't believe his ears at first, but then Sherlock apologized for a second time. He felt his heart pounding in his chest again because it really did mean a lot to him to hear that. But he also felt guilty for putting Sherlock through all that, first.

And then came the invitation and John didn't even bother to attempt to hide the happy look in his eyes and the ear-to-ear grin. "I'd really, really like that," he said, relaxing in his chair.

There was a quick pause before he asked, "have I upset you?"

It was a risk. But it was a risk Sherlock was willing to take now that he was more confident. He had been a coward before, but he could feel how much he really needed John as well.

A small smile lifted on his lips, a real genuine smile that he rarely shared. Then he took his cup of morning coffee and sipped it. Black, two sugars. Just the way he liked it, and John knew full well by now. These tiniest things hadn't gone amiss, Sherlock Holmes, appreciating the gratitude.

"Upset? No." Why would he be upset? When was he ever upset? "Do I look upset?" Daft question. Though he had gone through quite a lot that morning. Puzzled, yes, but not offended or anything.

"No," John said, still unable to contain his giddiness. His morning went from horrid to amazing within moments. He knew he was going to go back to feeling guilty once he went to work with Sarah, but he was going to enjoy his bit of freedom and happiness right now.

Because, by the looks of it, his friendship with Sherlock was mended and even stronger than before. "You do look on the thin side. As always. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold," he said kindly, already back to eating his own meal.

Sherlock's smile was rather contagious and John was happy to be able to go back to the usual banter.

Was it strange that Sherlock should feel awkward at the moments where people usually felt comfortable? Well he wouldn't say awkward per se, just a lot different that he wasn't feeling gleeful when he was shooting people down and mocking their intelligence.

John's smile was dazzling, it lightened him to know someone had the potential to feel happy around him. Something that he had been lacking in his life. At that, his throat tightened for a moment, then fumbled with the cutleries as John ushered him to eat his breakfast, to which he obliged to.

After he had finished, there was one more thing he wanted to bring up. Just one. And it mattered not if John didn't want to, he just... he just wanted to ask. He knew the doctor might not comply, seeing as he was troubled enough as it was before. But really, this was going to haunt Sherlock for as long as he can remember if it doesn't happen.

"Can you kiss me again?"

John picked and ate at his breakfast. He'd occasionally glance up to Sherlock, as if to check that the other was still content and not regretting taking him along tonight. Because as much as John wanted to go, he didn't want Sherlock to feel uncomfortable. But Sherlock seemed to be fine with it, so he quit worrying.

He finished his breakfast just before Sherlock did and he automatically picked up their plates to wash in the sink once they both were done. As he dried them and put them away, Sherlock asked a question that floored him.

_Yes _was his immediate thought, but he knew he couldn't do that. He felt guilty enough doing it once and cheating on Sarah. But there was that soft fluttering in his chest at the thought that Sherlock liked kissing him.

But a part of him didn't want to reject Sherlock because the man obviously wasn't used to affection or anything relationship-y, so John walked over to him to brush his fingers through the man's hair once and kiss his forehead. "I can't do that anymore, Sherlock," he said, stepping away to sit back down in his seat and drink his coffee. "Kissing you means that I'd be cheating on Sarah, and I don't like to cheat on anyone," he explained, "speaking of, could you please not mention it to her? I'd rather be the one who told her."

This was so confusing. Sherlock understood the concept of 'cheating' and how it caused a lot of problems in the crime world to some individuals. But what confused him was that John actually treated the 'kiss' as something serious, which he initially said wasn't. So. What? However, Sherlock decided to not press on it. It's probably best not to dwell on such things anymore, and it will be easy for him to get over it. The small sign of affection to his forehead was strangely likeable though. He merely shrugged, drinking the rest of his coffee and stood. "Fine. Not like I talk to Sarah anyway." And it's not like he really cared about her, so that would mean not bothering to go out his way to upset her about John 'cheating'.

John hadn't even thought that this would be as confusing for Sherlock as it was turning out to be. However, at least he could relax. Sherlock wasn't mad at him and he wasn't going to tell Sarah. He settled himself in his chair and hummed to himself. It was about an hour before he'd have to start getting ready for work and head out, so he figured he had some time to get briefed.

"So what have you found out so far?" John had only looked enough in to the documents to see that Sherlock was up to something. He finished up his current mug of coffee so he got up to make himself a new mug. "Want more?"

Sherlock had expected John to ask, and surprised that he kept to himself for this long. He had the answers ready, and knew it was best to give John a head start before they start diving into the deep end later. Placing his hands together, he thought over for a minute, simply shaking his head to the offer for another mug as he began pacing the kitchen and explaining what he had learnt so far.

The real thing will begin that night, and John better be prepared for it.


	5. Infiltrating the Parliament

**Chapter Rating**: PG-13

**Summary Plot:** After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.  
><strong>Comments:<strong> Chapter contains violence and angst

Angel-Castiel - Hey thanks! It's from both POV because it was initially our RP haha!

CrazyCSIgirl15 - Thank you very much : )

**Chapter 5 - Infiltrating the Parliament**

The information wasn't enough. There had been too many loose strings and holes in the plan.

Sherlock knew that the missing pieces were only a few. Just a few documents that he had left out on his previous raids. In all honesty, he wasn't too sure where else to look. He already checked the entire Oil Exchange department and the Terrorist Investigations, but what he was missing was probably the original confidential signature that assigned this plan in the first place.

He knew a great deal of the conflict between the oil companies in the Middle-East and the British Government. Oil prices were rising at a ridiculous rate around UK, the scarcity of the fuel was no doubt the main trigger to the F.A.D.E project. Suspicions were on the speculation that the oil companies in Afghanistan were deliberately holding back the trades to weaken the UK, hence explaining the nuclear explosives the Government had planned to pull in retaliation.

Sherlock had narrowed down his deductions to the main leaders of the project: Mr Gareth Whittaker who had his part in the Nuclear Weapons department, Mr Czernobog Maxim Petrov- the administrator of Foreign Exchange, Mr Peter Nelson Gray who had been in charge of the Transportation from the Middle-East and Ms Hannah Auckland, the head of Oil Trade. However, he still needed to know who the main sponsor was, and the ringleader.

The streets of London had darkened to a misty sapphire grey as it approached twilight. Sherlock sat impatiently as the tube carted southbound, mildly registering the announcement '_The next station is Green park_' and checked his watch. Only one more stop until their destination, and about time as well. He hated the underground for many reasons, for one, it was usually so busy that it was hard to have free space to stretch his legs. It was also stuffy, it had the awful stench of tourists, and what's more- it was _bloody_slow.

The only reason he had resorted to this type of travel was because of discretion. It would be highly conspicuous if a taxi was to stop near the Houses of Parliament at late evenings, especially as he's done that twice before. He supposed it was lucky that there was a direct route on the Jubilee Line between Baker Street and Westminster, not able to even comprehend the stress he would undergo if they should change. The crowd at the Westminster tube station had been clearing steadily as many of the late workers were starting to head home. Sherlock stepped out of the carriage with relief, making sure John was closely towing him as he crossed the platform. He resisted the urge to hold his arm- or hold his hand- or hold any part of him for that matter. Now that they were at the closest point to their destination, he had began to feel the hunch growing on him again and couldn't shrug it off.

"You know- you can still turn back." Sherlock spoke up his concerns finally as they reached the top of the first sets of escalators, rounding on John and looking at him with a serious intensity. "It will be dangerous. Especially since they'll be expecting me again." Oh but what's the point of telling him this? If anything, it would only encourage him. The word 'danger', after all, was Sherlock's way of luring John before.

John spent the entire day at his office mulling over the information Sherlock had given him just before he left the house. This was certainly bigger than anything they were involved in before- well, the Chinese Lotus ring was pretty intense but they were all foreign black market dealers. This was a plan that would directly affect many regular citizens.

He avoided Sarah. A lot. She came in for another snog at lunch and he faked that he was starting to feel a sickness coming on and he didn't want to spread it to her. He should have known better than to create a sickness excuse in a clinic. Especially when Sarah knew all the symptoms. But John was a terrible liar.

John finally broke and said that he had done something wrong, but he wasn't ready to say what yet. Sarah seemed to be a bit upset over it, but reassured him that she was happy that he at least told some of the truth. They ate the rest of their lunch in silence with some occasional, idle chat.

The rest of the day, John would have felt a whole lot more guilty if he hadn't had their break-in to look forward to. John returned to the flat, all smiles, and armed himself with his handgun as they left.

He knew better than to talk as they took the public transport to Parliament. Sherlock didn't like mindless chatter when he was trying to think- and he always was thinking. He followed along once they reached their stop and was ready to keep silent the whole time, but then Sherlock rounded on him and cut off his path.

Turn back? _Hell _no. He gave Sherlock a pointed look that was both calm and stubborn and clearly stated that he had no intentions on going back. "And let you have all the fun?" However, he knew this was serious. "Somebody has to be around to get you out of trouble."

If he had the moment right then without the obstructing fact that they were in a public location, he would have sworn that he could've grabbed John and pull him into a tight embrace. God, he didn't know what he would do without him. Unable to see any way of convincing John to back off, Sherlock gave him a last affirming nod before sweeping up the last set of escalators into the open.

The air was bitter and cold, it had dropped several degrees since the afternoon and the frost was biting into what was exposed of his face. A long trail of steam billowed freely from his lips as he strode across the darkening streets towards the Parliament. The temperature never really seemed to bother the detective, another absurdity that his fellow former colleagues at Scotland Yard had pointed out, apparently thinking that immunity to intense weather was inhumane. He begged to differ. He just wasn't fussy.

He glanced up the set of high windows as he calmly bustled off the main street and nearer to the River Thames where he slid down to the lower platforms at the dock. He couldn't risk passing the front again, knowing that the security levels were much higher. John check-ups had become frequent, for every few minutes Sherlock would glance back on his companion and look on behind him to see if they were being followed. It wasn't easy to know where the attacks would come from, but Sherlock was determined not to let their guard drop.

The ledge along the river was wet and slippery, yet Sherlock continued to edge along effortlessly until he reached the certain point where he had left the window open in his last raid at the lower floor's toilets. Thankfully for him, he had sufficient inside help, Mycroft being one of them, and the cleaners whom Mycroft bribed to help keep guard of the opened window.

Hoisting himself up on the higher ground, Sherlock naturally turned to help John too, tugging him up the slope from the docks until they were teetering on the side of the building. "Right. You go in first." He said firmly, nodding his head up to direct him to the open window on the first floor. "I'll watch your back."

John was pleased that Sherlock didn't push any further than that. He could understand one last offer to go back to safety, but anything more than that would have made John doubt whether Sherlock really wanted him here. Besides, there was no way that he could let Sherlock go off on his own again.

He was glad that he had thrown on an extra jumper before he left. If he only had his usual shirt and black jacket, he would have been a lot worse off. The cold air nipped at his fingers and ears and his nose. He probably should invest in a good pair of gloves for nights like these. However, he ignored it. He wasn't able to play it off like nothing the way Sherlock could, but not a single word of complaint came from his lips.

He had to constantly wipe at his nose to keep from sniffling- no need getting caught because of a stuffy nose- and his lips started to get chapped from licking them too much. But he was fine. Better than fine. His heart was pounding in his chest despite his calm exterior. They were breaking into Parliament and he felt more alive than ever. It took a bit of effort to keep up with Sherlock. He was able to navigate the area just fine thanks to military training, but Sherlock had longer legs than his. He'd probably beat him in any race.

Once they got to a window, he grimaced as he tried to think of a way he could reach up that high. But then Sherlock offered a hand and he was able to pull his weight up. His breathing was steady and the soft breath clouds rose up from his nose. He gave Sherlock a small nod and then grabbed on to a drain pipe with one hand to shimmy up a few feet so he'd be able to grab on to the window ledge. He made sure to keep as quiet as possible as he lifted himself up and climbed in. He kept low and in the shadows, eyes searching around to get a good idea of the area.  
>Just at the second John's feet disappeared through the window, Sherlock immediately made his way up to follow as well, clambering the same set of pipes and grabbing onto the window ledge. Before he could get any further though, a sudden yell broke out from inside to which he froze in panic. "John?" He called, pulling himself up through the window quickly to see that the cleaner guard that Mycroft hired had been surprised by the unexpected intruder. He was brandishing a Beretta 92, semi-automatic- and bloody loud if he fired it.<p>

"Stop! Stop he's with me! Sherlock Holmes!" He hissed urgently, throwing himself down from the window so the guard could see him clearer. A wash of relief appeared on the guard's face, he seemed to have been as initially scared of them as they were. Why Mycroft hired such an amateur was anyone's guess.

Sherlock collected himself and brushed down his trench coat as he studied the area as well, making his way to the door and peered down the expanse of the corridor.

"Anything?" He diverted his question to the guard whom he posted to keep watch for any other parties attempting to steal the information.

"No, Mr Holmes, sir. The Parliament has been clear since evening."

That was great news, at least. Sherlock felt his lip quirk as he dipped out into the corridor- quickening to a light jog as he turned up the stairs to the second floor to the main offices. Right. So where hasn't he been yet?

Funny enough, the yell didn't come from John. The yell came from the rookie guard that John pulled his gun on the second he rounded the corner. Unfortunately, the guard was smart enough to whip out his own and they were standing each other down at gunpoint until Sherlock clamoured through the window.

Well, that was a relief. For a second there, he was almost worried that he had blown their cover minutes into the mission. He exhaled slowly and carefully put his gun back in it holster on his belt. Right. He wasn't too sure if trusting a guard was the best idea since having more people involved meant more mouths that had to keep shut... but John wasn't going to question the ideas of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

Nonetheless, he at last gave the guard a small nod as if to silently apologize for pulling the gun on him. At least he didn't fire- John had seen too many needless deaths in one lifetime.

John kept as quiet as he possibly could as he followed Sherlock. He had mapped out in his mind the rooms Sherlock had told him he had gone to before he reminded, "you never mentioned the basement."

Their footsteps echoed lightly- especially from Sherlock- who hadn't really bothered to keep himself too low profile now. The place was relatively quiet, and the working hours had ended several hours ago. He flipped out his torch and casted the beam of light on the offices as he passed, squinting around at the signs and picking up every single detail that might help him for later.

_Left - fire exit. Goes straight down to the side of the building. Right - staircase to the upper floors. Ahead - Common's Library... Clock Tower..._

Sherlock stopped as he heard John speak, his breath catching. Ah yes! How could he forget? "The basement!" He whipped round on the spot so he could shine the torch on the doctor's face. "Yes, of course. Obviously. Thank you, John." He flashed him a smile as he backtracked to the set of stairs they passed, weaving round a few deserted corridors and ducking under some statues as the patrol guards passed.

He checked his watch again; it was coming fast to nine. And he didn't have much time until they started to lock all the doors. Without hesitation, he ushered John into the basement where it was cooler yet, the ceiling was incredibly high for an underground storage, and thousands of shelves and cabinets had filled the entirety of the room.

"There, in the strict confidential section- need to find... some sort of certificate. F.A.D.E Project."

Even though Sherlock allowed the whole world to know that they were there, John still kept his footsteps quiet. Survival instincts kicked in and the one thing that he learned in Afghanistan was that if you think you're alone, keep quieter.

John grimaced and shielded his eyes from the light when Sherlock suddenly spun around. But once the light was gone, he gave a small grin, glad that he was able to be of some sort of use. He could feel the adrenaline course through his veins every time they turned a corner or had to hide away from a guard. Once they were down in the basement, John gave a small shudder and rubbed at his arms. Okay, man up, it's just a bit of cold.

He immediately began to search files under the 'F' section. But that would be too obvious. He chewed on the inside of his cheek before looking up files on the names that had popped up before - Whittaker, Gray... and it wasn't long before F.A.D.E. was mentioned in one of the files. "Sherlock," he muttered, raising the paper up a bit.

The stacks of documents would have been overwhelming for a newcomer, but to Sherlock's delight, it seemed John had a decent enough clue on where to start. Even some of the staff at the Parliament had a hard time navigating through the hoards of information..

Sherlock had himself busied in a huge stack of papers under 'Nuclear War' flipping through centuries old to modern day declarations. Whoa, top secret stuff. Good thing a lot of these were brought down. He bit his lip lightly as he whipped out a particular piece with the familiar name, "Anderson Derrington... where did I hear-? Oh yes." F.A.D.E, the full name only mentioned once in the piles of documents Sherlock had- Frederick Anderson Derrington Execution Project. Yes, he was snagging this piece.

As he dived frantically deeper into the pile hoping to find more, but he was loosing hope fast as he was approaching the end, and no doubt the dates were getting older... and older...

John's first tiny mutter had gone unnoticed at first, but after having a louder call, Sherlock pulled his head out of the stack of papers and looked over. "What? What did you find?" He hurried to him, standing close enough behind John so he could look over his shoulder and scanned the paper.

"Excellent- take that with you. We've only got ten more minutes until-"

"Hey! You!"

Sherlock jumped, his eyes darting to the door of the basement. Someone had switched on the lights.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek while Sherlock looked the files over. While the man busied himself with that, John turned back to the files and began looking for some more. He took a couple and stashed it in the back of his pants- same went for the first stack of papers he had once Sherlock finished looking through them.

And then their time was up. He grimaced at the voice. He immediately looked around for another exit and found a ladder going up to a hatch in the ceiling marked 'Employees, only'. No doubt, it was some sort of janitorial route but it was better than the one other exit that had a guard in it.

"Sherlock," he muttered, pointing to the ladder. "Go straight to that."

Because their presence here was busted anyway, John withdrew his gun and shut off two of the lights, immediately giving them an effective cover of darkness to rush to the ladder. John waited for Sherlock to climb up before going and pushing through the door. He quietly shut it and locked the latch.  
>Sherlock had seen the other exit too- having already noted it the second he walked into the basement. His keen eyes spotted John's movement to his gun, then swiftly looking to the side for the path to the ladder, taking in the exact route before the cover of darkness so he won't tumble over the shelves.<p>

Just as the lights went out again, he immediately made a move to grab John's sleeve and jerked him hard as he pelted through the length of the basement, ducking his head as the guard open fired into the dim. Something hot whizzed past Sherlock's ear- so bloody close- hearing the sharp clang as the bullet ricocheted at the far end on the pipe.

He was on the ladder, taking two- three steps at a time and pulled himself through the hatch into the dingy corridor that stank of disinfectant and various other cleaning products. There wasn't time to look around though, they had to get out. Fast.

A visual map instantly burst into life in Sherlock's mind, closing his eyes as he frantically sought out the best escape route. _Sharp right- first corridor- back to the main hallway. No. There will be more guards there by now. Left- second... third corridor. Another sharp right- pass the lockers. Narrow stairs to the first floor._

Got it. "This way!" Sherlock made sure that John had finished locking the latch before going into a full blown sprint, his hair whipping from his face and the wind howling in his ears. There were sounds of approaching footsteps at their tail- four... no, five people. Where were they all coming from?

John's heart stopped for a moment when he heard the bullet whiz by in their direction. It was closer to Sherlock than to him by the sounds of it and he was thankful that he heard it ricochet off of the walls instead of burying itself into his flatmate's muscle.

Climbing was no problem. John was used to that sort of thing and he found himself having to wait for Sherlock to climb up rather than having trouble catching up. However, once they were back on foot and running, Sherlock was back with the advantage. John ran as quickly as he could but even then Sherlock was able to get four or five pace's worth ahead of him at all times.

And then people were right behind them. He didn't dare to look back, but John did knock down lamps and rubbish cans as they went to create obstacles for whoever was behind them.

Sherlock spared the moment to look back- John was still at his tail and behind him just emerging from the corner were the five that were chasing them.

At that, he pumped up in break neck speed, his strong athletic legs propelling him fast through the marble halls of the Parliament. They were coming close to the toilets, Sherlock's heart was thundering against his ribs but he didn't slow down one bit. He felt the cool air chiseling his dried lips, panting lightly and rounding the final corner to the last corridor.

There was an open fire again, this time several more bullets narrowly missing Sherlock. The toilets was just up ahead- just a few more seconds-

He screeched to a stop, skidding along the smooth tiles of the hall as the same guard who let him in had stepped out of the toilets- for a split second thinking that he was going to shoot at the chasers- until the end of his gun flashed gold as a bullet exploded through the barrel and hitting-

"John-!" It was the longest three seconds of Sherlock's life as he watched the bullet ripping through the doctor's stomach. He didn't have time to calculate the damage- the five men were approaching fast, and there was no way they could squeeze through that window now. The detective took the only chances he had, diving for his companion's falling body and twisting himself so his shoulder collided with the glass window- sending them flying back into the chilly air and into the river.

John knew that they were in extreme danger, but he was absolutely _revelling _the way his blood was coursing through his veins and his heart pounding away in his chest. This is what made him feel alive- living on the knife's edge.

The faintest hint of a smile managed to cross his features as they got to the home stretch. They were so close. His eyes brightened up more and more with each missed bullet and he felt a great emotional high...up until Sherlock came to a skidding halt and he saw the guard raising the gun at them. There was no time to move out of the way and everything went in slow motion as he watched the bullet fire out of the barrel of the gun and sink into his stomach.

His vision was blinded by white-hot, indescribable pain. He was a doctor who spent two years in Afghanistan, watching war wound after war wound and he knew that the bullet he just took wasn't anything he could push through. He wanted to- so badly. He tried to keep his momentum going forward, but his legs were failing him. He tried to tell Sherlock to go. His mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. And then he fell. But rather than feeling the cold floor, something warm and strong took hold of him.

And before he knew it, every inch of his body was wet and freezing and only made him more aware of the pain that was ripping through his body. He was barely aware of himself and his surroundings. All he knew was that he was losing too much blood, too fast, and if he didn't die from blood loss, it would be hypothermia. His voice was hoarse and he could barely speak, but he kept trying to mutter 'Land' until his voice was audible.

They made impact with the surface, the shock from the sudden cold slap threw all thought out of his mind at that moment. He was still under, and there was a moment of utter panic and confusion as he tried to figure up from down.

Everything was a haze of blurry green and a murkish brown- his ears drowned in the gurgling sound as they fell deeper and deeper yet. Sherlock's senses rebooted, judging from the thickness of the pollution in the water they were several feet down. He didn't let go- holding onto John's body as tightly as he could as he kicked his legs back into action and twisted into position as he swam with the current further down the river.

With a loud splash, Sherlock surfaced first against the dock, water spraying from his mouth as he spluttered, bringing John's body up with him and placed him on the chilling concrete.

Then his heart stopped.

He wished it was a mistake- he wished it was just his imagination when he saw the fresh gaping hole in the soldier's stomach. There was no denying it. Raw crimson blood was gushing out of his wound as freely as if the bullet had ruptured his heart. Harsh, overpowering reality had struck Sherlock dizzy, he couldn't speak- the voice in his throat was caught.

"J-Joh-" It was no use. He didn't know what to do, there was too much blood loss- he had no bandages- no stitches- wait- his phone. His phone! Sherlock fumbled in his pocket, but the phone simply fell out of his trembling fingers and clattered on the floor. It was useless, the water had destroyed the batteries.

Oh god. Oh god.

"John! John- I'm so s- Oh god-" Sherlock could feel tears welling in his eyes, he looked around wildly for anyone- the main road hadn't been far. Getting to his feet- he quickly yelled out as loud as he could to anyone who was passing by. Help! Goddamit!

Once they were back on land, John began to get his wits about him. His body was in shock, yes, but at least he wasn't panicked. In the water, all basic thought had shut down because he had no control. The current was too strong for him to move with all his clothes dragging him down. But now he had the cold, solid ground beneath him.

The pain was almost unbearable and his entire body was shaking and convulsing, but he tried to keep his hands as steady as possible as he unzipped his jacket.

What killed him the most was how Sherlock was reacting. He could hear the panic in the man's voice- John had seen this before. Panic led to death. John lifted his jumper up past his ribs and tried to press his hand down on the wound, but the blood just slipped through his fingers.

His skin was already pale and ghost-like and his lips were blue from the cold. He tried a few times to speak. "_Sh-... Sher-_," he summoned up all the air in his lungs and finally cried out a hoarse-but-strong, "Sherlock!" He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back as he tried to get a grip on himself. "G-give me a lighter and hold my head up."

There was someone coming- and they already had their phone out, no doubt calling the ambulance. Sherlock could feel the hope- the tiny sense of hope that his fragile heart clung onto. John's voice finally made it to his half deaf ears- spinning round and dashed to his side, his own legs giving in as he crouched by him. With haste- he quickly unraveled the scarf from his neck and folded it a few times and placed it under the doctor's head. Then fumbling in his pockets and almost dropping the lighter as well- shakily handing it over to John.

John knew what he was doing- he was acclimatised to such stress. But never, in Sherlock's life- had he ever been through the intense pain of losing someone. It was always him, himself. In his own bloody life.

"John... I'm so- so sorry. It's m-my fault-" Sherlock trembled out, unable to stop the onset of tears as they burned his eyes. He ripped off his own trench coat- not caring as the piercing frosty air rushed onto his soaking shirt and held the coat over John- giving him space to operate with the lighter but at the same time hoping to provide just some extra warmth and shelter.

Sherlock hadn't looked up at the stranger who had arrived, but he could tell it was a woman, middle aged... oh, an opera singer too- wait no, no shut up. What the hell was he doing?

"John..." he whimpered again, his hand was still shaking terribly, but he wanted to touch him, his gloved palm loosely cupping the doctor's face. It was pathetic; he didn't know how many times he had apologised now. But it kept coming out again and again, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry'.

John would have sat up, but he was too weak right now to support himself and if his stomach wasn't exposed and skin drawn taught, then his skin would just rip open the next time he laid back. So he needed just his head up.

Even though Sherlock tried to keep the trench coat out of the way, it still was a bother. But he wasn't going to snap at him. He needed his energy to stop the blood. "Relax, Sh-Sher-" his voice trailed off before he could finish the man's name. Giving up on talking, John's shaking hand took the lighter and flicked it on. He held the flame to his skin and it took every bit of willpower he had not to pass out. He grit his teeth, refusing to shout in pain like he wanted. He didn't want to scare Sherlock. Instead, soft whimpers and labored breathing escaped him as he watched his skin turn an angry red and scar. But he was also causing the blood to harden prematurely over the wound.

Finally, he managed to stop the blood and his hand flopped to the ground. His chest rose and fell heavily as he tried to ignore the further searing pain on his side. It wasn't until now he noticed Sherlock crying and his hand on his face. Oh, Sherlock. He felt his chest tighten as he fought to stay awake.

"It's not your fault," he whispered, because talking hurt. John turned his head so he could kiss the palm of his hand before looking back up and managing a pained smile. "I don't blame you. It's going to be all right," he muttered, making every effort to comfort Sherlock through words because it took too much to move his arms. "I'm going to live. We can finish this. I have the papers, still."

Why was it that the world hadn't stop spinning the moment the bullet entered John? Why weren't there crowds of people here to help them? They were so eager before, so eager to get in Sherlock's way.

Why- Sherlock cried out in his mind- hadn't he been the one who got shot?

He knew this would happen- he knew this was going to happen. He won't be able to forgive himself- he let John follow. He let John get shot. It was stupid- Stupid!

_You're an idiot. You're a fucking. __**Idiot!**_

The palpitations from his heart were painful, like phantom hands wrenching his muscles too tight. He couldn't stand it, emotions. Pure fresh waves of raw emotions tearing through his virgin mind. As John finished with the lighter, Sherlock allowed the trench to drop as he used both his hands to caress the doctor's face and hair. He could hear the woman sniffing behind him.

He dipped his head down, his icy lips tracing against John's forehead as he had kissed him that morning. His eyes were closed, the burning tears trickling gently down his cheek as he waited. The sounds of the ambulance and police's sirens were distant- but they were coming. Gradually growing louder, and louder.

And louder.

**Reviews are appreciated!**


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